The Literal and the Figurative

Note to self: when your son's stomach starts to rumble loud enough for you to instinctively look for a freight train, you should immediately go on alert. When it does it a second time, you should check him before you pick him up and hug him.

Little Man was sitting in his chair happily eating away; a spoon in each hand to maximize the wonderful mess mommy will have to clean up but why stop with face, hair, and floor? Been there. Done that. Time to up the ante.

The first rumble didn't register with me right away. The second rumble caused a raised eyebrow but the look of shear joy and huge belly laugh wiped away any concern. Um, hello. You have a BOY. Listen to the stereotypes woman. They came about for a reason.

I pick Little Man up and give him a hug as I always do when a stench begins its assault on my olfactory receptors. Once that registers, I realize my boob is now wet. I extend my arms and am about to ask my adorable offspring if he pooped when it I realize I am about to be awarded the grand prize for asking the obvious.

As I've mentioned before, my son has never been one for spit ups or blowouts but when he does, he excels at them. I am not sure what award he is going for but he definitely took it tonight. Is there an Oscar for best blowout?

It is all the way up his back and half way up his front (not to mention also now on my front BLECH!). I carry my adorable yet revoltingly smelly and dirty offspring upstairs by holding him as far away from me as my arms will reach. I am not sure "pissed off" properly conveys the look I received. I quickly realize that there is no way I can use the changing table unless I want it spread to his hands, feet, face, hair, and of course, the walls. So stink boy gets unceremoniously dumped in the tub. The daggers shooting out his eyes are now joined by his spot on impersonation of a banshee.

I strip the socks and the shorts and am stunned by a horrific discovery. My son is wearing not a polo shirt but a polo onesie.

"Shit. Shit. SHIT! Literally and figuratively SHIIIIT! By the way dear, now is NOT the time to start imitating what you hear come out of mommy's mouth OK? SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT! How the hell do I get this damn thing off of you without getting it on your face and in your hair? DAMN IT! Why the HELL did I not install the damn detachable shower head? Hmm, would the neighbors be horrified if I took the hose to you outside?"

As the banshee screams increase I decide that maybe too scarring so I somehow manage the incredible feat of removing a onesie that seems to have shrunk instantly without getting it in his face or hair. I got it all over my hand and arm instead. Have I said BLECH yet?

The one time I am glad my son is too upset to sit down in the tub. It made cleaning him easier. I've never scrubbed him so clean. Ever. Have to remember to stop by CVS tomorrow and grab some more bath wash for him. I went through most of the bottle. Don't worry. I stopped short of reaching for the bleach.

So my son is now spit-shine clean and smelling like aquaphor. My hand and arm are scrubbed raw and smelling like rubbing alcohol (again, stopped short of reaching for the bleach. My arms are white enough). A pile of clothes, a ton of washcloths and towels are in the wash and his tub has been scrubbed, bleached and then bleached again for good measure.

I hope this a one time deal but the freight train rumbled again. SHIT! I tell you I am incredibly slow sometimes. My son's pajamas? A FREAKING ONESIE! I think of this now. SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT! This better be a one-time thing. I can already hear my husband's response at 2 AM: "I have to go to the office tomorrow. You are working from home. All yours. Besides, you are the one that put in back in a onesie".

Oh Sweet Mother...