The kind of day

24 01 2008

Where Oliver projectile-spits-up on me. Just part of the job, I know. But it was SECONDS after I’d put on a clean shirt. And half of the warm, chunky mess flew through the air and landed right smack in the middle of my chest, sliding goopily down into the crevasse between my boobs (bigger boobs: one of the many benefits of breastfeeding, in case you’re on the fence!) (although the whole spit-up-between-your-boobs-thing… you’re back on the fence now, aren’t you?).

Where pulling on the tab from the top of a cup of applesauce results in the tab coming off, but not the rest of the foil. Now what?

Where a weight loss commercial comes on tv and they show someone’s rather… jiggly big belly and Ethan points and says, “It’s you, Mommy!”

Where, when answering the pleas of “Help me, Mommy!” from an Ethan who is SUPPOSED to be napping, I enter his room to find NOT a sleepy Ethan in bed, but a HALF NAKED Ethan, holding a pair of underpants. “What do you need help with?” “Dees can’t work. I trying to wear dem but dey can’t work,” he explains. “Um. Where is your diaper?” I asked. He trots away and comes back to the doorway, holding out his diaper, which happens to be full of… “I pooped,” he says. Oh, no. I look around his room: there are about 3 or 4 diapers on the floor next to his bed; they look as if they’ve been opened, tried on, and discarded. Also, strewn about the room as if he was in the middle of a very important UNDERWEAR PARTY, is every single pair of underpants he owns (16). Balled up in the corner- his socks, which had been white when I put him down not 20 minutes ago… now a significantly… dirtier shade. And let’s not forget the smears on the carpet, and the smears on the couch… Oh. My. It was a poopsaster. Kind of like a disaster, ONLY WITH POOP.

Where, while coloring and cutting out shapes, Ethan comes over to me, puts his arm around me and says, “I love you” (sounds like: I luv ooh). All on his own. For the first time ever. Without the promise of M&Ms or money as a reward. I’m pretty sure he didn’t really grasp what he was saying, but I don’t care in the least. Totally made up for the poopsaster. (Not the weight loss commercial comment, though; no, that one’s gonna require my own promise of money. Or M&Ms.)



4 responses

24 01 2008

Get a martini, pump and dump. đŸ™‚

24 01 2008

We had a poopsaster here the other day. It involved not only walls but also Mystery Locations: that is, we weren’t sure WHERE HE HAD BEEN. Now it feels as if the whole HOUSE is coated in poop—because it REALLY COULD BE. It’s like that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry’s girlfriend tells him she dipped one item from his apartment into the toilet.

24 01 2008

Ha!! Poopsaster!! I love it!

Im a drop in from Andreanna-hope your day gets better…

24 01 2008

Why is it ALWAYS right after you put on a new shirt! I tell you, they talk about having more laundry when there’s a baby in the house, but they neglect to tell you it’s your OWN clothes your having to wash over & over!

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