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.