We have a system. In the morning, a final feeding takes place. As our child talks himself into awareness, the Hub gets up and brings him to me in bed. There, I give him the last direct-from-the-source nourishment until after work hours. This morning, we heard the man-child stir and begin to talk his five month old gibberish around 545AM.
As the ritual runs, the Hub got up to procure a baby for the feast. But, he didn't return. In fact, the happy talking turned to cries of frustration. Have you heard a hungry baby cry with a nipple nary in sight? Frustration.
Just as I was about to flip the blankets off and rush into the baby's room my Hub appeared in the dark doorway. I could just make out his outline holding what looked to be a very tan and naked child in a diaper.
Cautiously, I whispered, "what happened?"
The quiet response, as my Hub continued to hold our baby delicately but also as if in sacrifice to some dark Goddess of Bowel, was, "there is shit. Everywhere. Shit. It is the worst blowout. Ever. Shit. All over the crib sheet. Shit. Oh, the shit."
Motherhood has apparently changed nothing about my personality. I rolled over and lifted the blankets for baby insertion, boob still hanging out ready for action, and said, "if you got all of the shit off of him, lay him down and I will feed him before I leave for work."
Ritual. It is a good thing.
On an aside. . . Baby wipes are great for removing shit from a kid - once you have wiped it dry. Do you understand, people? There is no wiping shit, which is made from some illogical wetness, too, with a wet wipe. If the wipe is too wet, you just manage to make a shit paste and spread it more evenly all over your child, rather than lifting the offending substance away as planned. Live, shit, and learn.
Live. Shit. And learn.
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