It was bound to happen eventually. I did it to my mother, after all. It’s practically a family tradition now.
Let me back up.
I was in that place between sleep and consciousness, where I knew I needed to get up, but I was still relishing those last few minutes of shut-eye. Little Man was starting to make noise from his crib, and my wonderful husband popped his head in the door and told me that he would get him. As I was relaxing and marveling at how wonderful my husband is, I hear the following:
“Honey, we have a problem.”
duhn duhn DUHN
It turns out that Little Man had a diaper explosion, was intrigued and did some finger-painting in his crib, on the wall, on his toys, and all over himself. ewwwwww.
Thankfully, Hub is on an easy rotation right now, and we were able to tag-team Little Man. Hub took him to the tub and scrubbed him down (after removing the massive diaper and doing the necessary pre-cleaning). I tackled the crib, bumpers, toys, sheets and whatever else I thought might have become contaminated.
|giraffey, freshly cleaned, and perhaps a little embarrassed.|
These are the moments of parenting when I understand why children are made to be so cute.
Also, I think these blog posts are today’s equivalent of last generation’s nude photos.