Just For Laughs

I have to admit, this is a bit of a lazy post. But I figure a lazy post is better than no post at all. So here it is, just for laughs, because someone should get amusement out of this. (Truth be told, I can look at this and see the humor in it too...)

This is the text of an e-mail I sent to a friend a few weeks ago. She was wanting to see Miss A, and we had planned to have lunch, but I had to cancel because I came down with a cold that R had gotten the week before:

"Started to feel better yesterday afternoon, almost called to see if you were available for dinner. Decided it was still too soon to risk it.

Good call. Cold came back with a vengeance. Can't sleep, throat so sore it feels like I'm going to cough up blood. Rudolph nose.

Miss A wakes up at 2:30 a.m. Go upstairs to feed her.

She eats well. Hand her to R to burp her.

She promptly obliges.

All over the burp cloth. All over the carpeted floor. All over the clothes she was sleeping in. Somehow miraculously misses R.

She lifts her head from his shoulder and looks up at me. She is the happiest little baby, big grins.

She is the only happy one.

We are out of burp cloths, despite having done 2 loads of baby laundry the last 2 days.

R goes down stairs to start another load of laundry.

I continue feeding Miss A. I sit her up to burp her. Apparently there's nothing left for her to burp up.

I did not account for the havoc the other end is capable of wreaking.

I hear her fill her diaper. This usually happens in 3 squirts, so I sit and wait, eyes closed, half dozing. I'm mostly out of it. After a few minutes, it seems like no more telltale sounds are going to come.

I open my eyes, look down.

The back of her white onesie is yellow, almost up to her shoulder blades. She is sitting in a large, spreading ring of yellow on the boppy pillow.

I get up to begin dealing with the cleanup. I contemplate cutting her onesie off her, but the scissors are downstairs.

I hear R come back in the room. I tell him he needs to stop where he is and locate his sense of humor.

He looks at me suspiciously. It is now 3:30 a.m. He is not amused.

We take her downstairs for a bath, because there's no way wet wipes are cutting it for a job this big.

I need to step away for a minute and cough. R's sleep-deprived brain decides that is an opportune time to mention "that's what happens when you have dairy while you're sick."

It is irrelevant that he might be right. And in my defense, I had been feeling better the night before and so hadn't even thought about the "no dairy when sick" guideline.

His sleep-deprived brain quickly comes to understand the folly of taking that moment as an "I told you so" moment.

For her part, the baby is very cooperative with an unplanned 4 a.m. bath and is back asleep before R finishes redressing her.

If only I could say the same..."

And yet, even at that hour, even feeling as miserable as I did (I'm a total wimp when it comes to a sore throat), a part of me on the inside was still jumping up and down a little bit and thinking "We have a baby to bathe, we have a baby to bathe!"