For all of you who gave me some words, themes, ideas to break me out of my blog funk… THANK YOU! Here is the first of the commenter-inspired posts. And BTW, they will not necessarily be written in the order they were suggested because… um, well, my brain doesn’t work that way. I must follow the muse! Even when the muse is me pestering you guys for ideas. (And except for those moments when I’m being all Type-A and stuff. Then the muse goes to the spa.)
I thought I’d start with an easy one and tell you about my worst diaper disaster, inspired by Charlie. It is also the best diaper story because it is not about my son, but about my youngest brother so I get to humiliate him on the web! Mwah ha ha!
So here’s the back story… my youngest brother, aka “the kiddo”, is 13 years younger than me. (I have three brothers: 1 older, 2 younger. FYI.) I love my parents but they can be a tad self-absorbed, and when I was younger this seemed to especially happen in bouts. Shortly after the kiddo was born my parents went through one of these intense periods where they did a lot of “self-growth” activities and classes and so on. So I was left to babysit my brothers a lot. (Different era back then… there were latchkey kids, it was OK to leave your kids home alone, if you could dial a phone and knew your neighbors by name it was assumed a kid could get help if needed. Whatever.)
On one of these occasions after school my kid brother was taking a nap and I was hanging out with my bff Dawn downstairs. It was about time to check on the kiddo so we both started to walk upstairs. At least I think that was what we were doing; the events that followed blocked everything preceding “the discovery” from memory. But this I do remember clearly… we were laughing over some adolescent joke as we walked down the hall, we reached the bottom of the staircase and this stench rolled towards us like a tank truck. My bff got a horrified look on her face as I yelled, “What’s that smell?!” and tore up the stairs like an Olympic sprinter. (I really could sprint up the stairs back then. Ah, youth! I miss you babe.)
I burst into the kiddo’s room to see him, sitting there amidst the tousled linens with a splayed open diaper and… his masterpiece. He had finger-painted almost the entire wall next to his crib with shit. He had crap smeared all over the crib, he had poop up and down his torso, he had shit in his hair. The little bugger had obviously been awake for quite some time and, being curious about his new discovery, hadn’t made a peep. Even as I watched he turned away from my dramatic entrance, dipped his fingers back into that poop and continued to paint. The look of concentration on his 1-year-old face was that of an artist.
My friend arrived behind me, took in the room at a glance, and said, “Ummm, I’ll give him a bath.” (And that, my friends, is a measure of why she was my bff! Anyone else would have bailed!)
She did get the easier end of the job though. There was significantly less shit all over my brother than was on me by the time I cleaned everything up. (I did a damn good job, too, if I do say so myself. You can tell… when the smell is gone, you did a good job.) My parents and my other two brothers all managed to arrive home way after the event unfolded. Punks.
Now my dear brother is 23 in all his gothy-gabber glory. And kiddo, if you’re reading this, remember… if anyone hassles you on the street of the city, wondering what went wrong… it was that early exposure to shit. And not all those stories about the Monkey Farm and the Target Alligator I told you. (I know you’ve been blaming me.)
Is it any wonder I waited until my 30s before I had a kid of my own? I SO KNEW what I was getting into!
- the weirdgirl