Where to start? There was another epic poo incident. Poo literally running down her legs and up her back. At a loss, I plunked her down into the sink and hosed her off with the spray nozzle. I kid you not. Bill doesn’t believe in spending money on adjusting the indoor temperature to human being levels. So it’s 82 degrees inside and perfect weather for a poopy baby to get naked and clean. Well, rinsed off anyway. Ew. Ew, ew, ew,ew,ew. EW. How does poop so runny it leaks out her diaper and down her leg STICK TO THE TAG of her shorts? It defies physics. My baby’s poo defies physics. How’s that for a proud mom bumper sticker?
There was also a rice throwing debacle. Great she’s eating rice. Awesome she’s got the micro-movements down to be able to pick up the rice and fling it at me. No, no, I’m exaggerating. She wasn’t throwing it AT ME, just all around in a 360 degree explosion of amazing manual dexterity and rice. And baby drool. Sigh. Ew.
Bill trundled off to New Jersey for the weekend to help his dad with another garage sale. His dad scours garage sales all spring, summer and fall, then they turn around and sell it at HIS garage sale. Only when the goods have reached the ceiling, of course. Or start to bust out the vents.
Anyhoo - Ellie and I were permitted to stay in Virginia this weekend as his father’s house is not exactly kid-proof. With the garage sale going on it’s a lot of pressure on me to try to hold a squirming baby up on the couch where she gets bored in the three seconds it took me to sit her down and pull up her socks. We cannot let her down on the ground. Besides being questionably clean it’s really not kid-proof, it’s barely adult-proof. Well, barely ME-proof. I can’t count how many times I’ve almost fallen down the steep stairs, or tripped over pots on the floor in the kitchen, or stumbled down the rickety steps into the garage. It’s a wonder I’m still alive, really. Honestly, he’s got a puffer-fish (yes a dead puffer fish) hanging on the garage wall RIGHT at my head-level. Aren’t they poisonous? I always get a slightly alarming quick close-up whenever I stumble. I suppose I should be suspicious. Is he TRYING to kill me? But no, it’s just the state of affairs in a home that a brilliant and bored hoarder has lived in for forty-odd years.
So. The girls stayed home, Thursday morning to Sunday night. No problem right? She’s a BABY. I’m an ADULT. A reasonably smart, usually rational, totally operating within normal parameters ADULT. And, actually, it was no problem for the most part. FOR THE MOST PART. She IS crazy-crawly baby right now with a priority mission to up-end Toby’s water dish and/or crawl up the stairs and/or pull apart the plants I set stupidly on the floor within reach and/or crawl DOWN the stairs and pull open, down or out ANYTHING not tied shut and locked down like Fort Knox. I’m not exhausted, I’m beyond exhausted, what is that? Like, way past tired. I’d say I have baby-watching PTSD but I wouldn’t want to make light of the millions of real people who have seen REAL bad poo, and not the literal kind although maybe that too.