The Little Pack

I am sitting here stunned, still in disbelief about the sequence of events that just occurred. First, Baby Boy had a diaper blow-out. Not so unusual. Slightly stressful as I had to deal with it myself and these days it takes 2 to change a diaper. One to keep him in position and keep limbs contained and the other to do the dirty work. So there was rolling in it and little hands in places they shouldn’t be but somehow I wrangled him into a diaper and put him in the pack and play while I could wash my hands and rinse his jammies. Which I did in the kitchen sink. With the sprayer. While he was crying in his pack and play. Suddenly it felt as though my hand slipped and then water was in my face and everywhere. The hose took on a life of its own as it began whirling around, and in the back of my mind as I was desperately trying to catch the hose and turn off the water, I couldn’t help but think, does this really happen in real life? I turned off the water and surveyed my surroundings trying to ascertain what had just happened. Somehow the sprayer nozzle had come off the hose and water was everywhere. I mean everywhere–all over the window, the counters, the island, the kitchen table, the floor. Me. Obviously. By now Baby Boy had lost it, and started screaming bloody murder. I can’t say I stayed exactly calm. Neither of my tactics to soothe him were successful. One was, “Hey, hey, hey, you have to get it together,” and then other was some sort of hysterical (not as in funny, as in maniacal) version of 10 little Indians where I substituted Baby Boy’s name for “Indian.” Meanwhile the dogs were hiding, I was panicing and repeating this is funny, this is funny, this is funny… over and over  to myself.

So now most of the water has been cleaned up, Baby Boy has been comforted and I am wearing a dry shirt. None of us are worse for the wear. Time for a few deep breaths and a laugh. Oh, and to look for the sprayer nozzle which still hasn’t been found.

While Cheyenne has been competing with the baby and conflicted about his arrival, Jackson has completely defied all expectation. Jack’s reaction to the baby was a bit of a wild card. Some kids he has really loved, most he has been indifferent to, and there have been 2 children he has shown his teeth to. To say I was nervous is an understatement. But instead Jack has completely embraced the baby. When we come home, he and Cheyenne both check the baby to make sure he is has come back with me. Jack will always give the baby a quick lick on the cheek. This has become more and more enthusiastic over the past months. And now when Baby Boy puts his hand out to Jack, Jack licks it wholeheartedly. Yesterday Baby Boy immediately noticed Jackson upon waking up and put his little hand out. Jack graciously kissed it. Baby Boy smiled so big. And in response, Jack took this as an invitation and enthusiastically licked his face, much to Baby Boy’s delight. And then. Today, Jack kissed Baby Boy’s hand and Baby Boy giggled. Giggled with those sparkling eyes and adorable dimples and I thought I would just melt.

While I have been gushing about my son, Cheyenne has been… well, Cheyenne and doing the types of things that only Cheyenne does. See, Cheyenne has always thought that she is a baby. The real baby’s appearance has thrown her for a loop. Don’t get me wrong, she loves the baby, but she is a bit disappointed to discover that she is not human after all. She is still trying to convince herself otherwise but deep down is the truth she can’t deny: she is actually a dog. Yet this is not stopping her from stealing the baby’s blankets and burp clothes and curling up with them as if her proximity to them will somehow make her more human. And then yesterday, I caught her playing with one the baby’s toys. Not a stuffed animal, but a toy that stands up and whirls around. She was pawing at it to make it go around. I saw the look on her face and it clearly said, well, maybe if I just test this out, they will carry me around like that and sing to me and rock me…

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My day started with poop. Not poop in a diaper where it belongs but poop shooting out of my son’s butt during the first diaper change of the day. There was no warning, just poop shooting quite literally everywhere. All over me, all over him and the changing table, and the towel I had covering the changing table. Clearly his jammies got covered and needed to be changed. Jackson got scared and hid and Cheyenne felt the need to be involved. Hubby’s solution was to throw about a thousand wipes towards the Little One’s butt. Then after he ate he pooped again and it shot up his back, so jammies #2 were covered with poop. Meanwhile he slept a little later than normal and my boob was ready to explode–it was backed up to my neck (that’s not really an exaggeration) so I tried to pump but didn’t have the pieces together exactly right and milk got all over my clothes… And now I just found a fruit fly that drowned in my coffee. Awesome. But truly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Before I was a mom, I never knew that going an average of 3 days between showers would seem reasonable. For that matter, I never knew that I would view the most basic of personal hygiene tasks, like showering or flossing or god forbid even visiting the restroom as victories instead of simple tasks. I didn’t know that a ponytail and pair of oversized sunglasses perched on top of my head even in pouring down rain would become my best friends. And that I would trick myself into believing a necklace could make my hair look better on the days when the last shower I took was closer to 4 days ago. Which, seriously? That doesn’t even make logical sense. Do I really think these things are drawing attention away from the oil slick on my head, the bags under my eyes or the dried spit up all over my clothes? › Continue reading