Oh Poop!

I wrote this August 5, 2008, after a particularly difficult day with Ayize, and I guess I never got around to posting it. Thank God he's done with this phase! Just reading this post, the memories come fast and furious...

* * * * *

Dear Ayize,

I'm sorry that I got crabby with you today -- not once, but TWICE, for doing things that probably seemed perfectly reasonable to you.

This morning I was rushing around trying to get us out the door and to our yoga class on time, for once. We hopped in the tub and had a grand time. You were so clean and sweet-smelling when I lifted you out and lay you on your fluffy, fresh towel. Then you peed everywhere and I was so sad! Fortunately, not all the water had drained out of the tub yet so back in we went for a quick rinse. I lifted you out and laid you on the carpet on top of my towel while I went to get another dry diaper and another hooded towel and returned to find...your butt and back rolling around in a HUGE pile of fresh poop that you were attempting to finger paint the tub with! I realize you were just trying to get a jump start on your future fine arts education but that was little consolation. I totally lost my mind and implored the impassive bathroom walls, "Why...why...why???" which made you tear up, so I had to turn on a fake smile as I dealt with the Biohazard Level 5 cleanup.

And then this afternoon we entered the big battleground for the umpteenth time this week. Hand-to-hand combat -- i.e. my hands fighting your hands to keep them OUT of your diaper during changes. It's not so bad when your diaper is just wet cuz then the most damage you can inflict is to squeeze yourself so hard that you wrinkle up your face like, "Ow...who's that squeezing me and preventing mom from having future grandchildren...oh wait, that would be me!" But when your pants are -- ahem, muddy -- then your hands do a lot more damage in a lot less time. To make matters worse, your new trick of undoing the tapes on your diapers has quickly outgrown its initial cute quaintness. And when the two came together, as they did this afternoon on our bed...well, let's just say that your nickname "The Master of Disaster" seemed all-too appropriate at that moment.

So I lost it again and wailed at the wordless white walls, asking them to tell me what I had ever done to deserve such pungent punishment, but then your bottom lip popped out and began to tremble and quiver, and your eyebrows drew together in consternation. Before you could complete the picture with tears and a heart-piercing wail, I once again called upon my inner happy face reserve and managed to produce some semblance of a smile, enough to satiate you momentarily while I got out the latex gloves and chemical-splash protection goggles suitable for handling such scatalogical carnage.

And at 8:30 tonight, when the bedroom was finally deemed suitable for human occupation once more, and you were all cleaned up and sweet-smelling again, and dressed in your little jammies, smiling your toothy, sleepy grin at me, I lay you down and within two minutes you were totally tuckered out -- eyes shut tight, face slack, lips parted, deep breathing. I love you little man. I wouldn't change any of it, not for anything in the world. Good night, sweet prince, and rest up. Tomorrow will be another dirty day!