Today is the First Day of the Next Seven Years
Well, when he woke up, his diaper weighed at least 10 pounds. While I had his feet over his head and was wiping his butt, he pissed on himself. And by "on himself" I mean he sprayed himself in the face, hair, and all over his clothes before I could get a wipey over his winky. I know that I should know better by now and always have Mr. Winky covered, but it's hard to keep it covered while I'm cleaning up poop. He's squirming and I'm trying to keep him from completely covering himself in butt mud. I have to hold his ankles with one hand (to keep him from smearing his socks in it) and wipe with the other, and that doesn't leave any hands for putting the cloth back on Mr. Winky when he squirms this way or that and it falls off. So instead of covering Mr. Winky, I just started trying to make the process as quick as possible.
I wasn't quick enough this time. Not only did he spray himself, but pee puddled under him and there was no way to clean everything up without taking him off the changing table. I grabbed a blanket, spread it out in the floor as well as I could, and moved him down there to clean him up and redress him. Then I cleaned up the changing table and wiped the piss off the furniture and the walls. (I can just imagine what that room must smell like to outside visitors. Between the diaper filled garbage can and the pissed-on walls, it's probably rancid, and I'm just immune to it.)
I got him dressed, announced to him that we were going to the store, and scooped him up out of the floor, still determined to make it to Mal Wart before lunch hour wanderers poured into the streets. Then I realized that his hair was wet, and it wasn't sweat. Shit. I can't take my child to Wal Mart with piss in his hair, even though I briefly considered it. Then I considered trying to wash only his hair in the sink, but that didn't make much sense considering that it was bath day anyway. So I went and changed into a t-shirt and started some bath water.
During his bath, he peed again, but this time he skillfully sprayed yours truly. It hit me in the front of the neck and ran down my chest, into my shirt, and onto my bra. Fantastic.
Half an hour later, Charlie was clean and dressed, I was clean and dressed, and we were ready to go. But by then it was meal time. You don't take a hungry baby anywhere unless you're a glutton for punishment. So I prepared a bottle and we sat down on the couch to eat. When he finished, he burped right away, and I said, "Great, NOW we're leaving!" I put him on my shoulder and carried him to the car seat. When I sat him down, his face, arms, and shirt were covered in spit up, and he had a shit eating grin on his face. I looked down, and sure enough-- the entire front of my shirt was soaked with thick white soymilk spit up. YUM! Screw changing him again, I thought. I just wiped him down and quickly changed my shirt-- for the third time today.
We headed to Wal Mart, and he was perfect the entire time. He likes going to the store because the lights and the signs that hang from the ceiling give him something interesting to look at. As we were being checked out by a young black girl who talked to herself and yawned forty times in the three minutes it took her to check our groceries, Charlie spewed again. I was able to contain it with a little blanket, but that made the fourth castastrophic and/or inconvenient digestive mishap of our day, and it was only noon. Bad luck from the broken mirror?
He seems to feel okay. He has perfected The Squeal, and has been wreaking havoc on my eardrums with it all afternoon.
Mommy's ready for naptime.