Let me set the stage: The Squidd was up early today and, therefore, napped earlier than normal. This early nap, in turn, meant that by the time he was tired again, it was much too late for a second nap yet much too early for bedtime. So he had to power through until a reasonable bedtime hour.
Fast-forward to 7:45pm. We've managed to keep The Squidd entertained and mostly out of the death spiral of crabbiness by having him help us make pizza (oh yes), feeding him dinner, watching snippets of crap TV, and going for a walk around the neighborhood. As we roll into our driveway at the end of the walk, Rocky says to me that he thinks we should skip The Squidd's bath due to imminent meltdown. I enumerate The Squidd's bodily functions from earlier in the day and recommend that we stick to routine and give the bath. Plus it will further entertain The Squidd and get us closer to his regular bedtime (and, thus, back onto his sleeping schedule--hopefully).
Being the good hubby that he is, Rocky capitulates, and we go forward with the bath.
The Squidd is now clean, and I'm telling him that I'm going to lift him out of the tub on the count of three. (I have convinced myself into thinking this helps to prevent meltdowns when he has to exit the tub, but I may have deluded myself.)
One.
Two.
Thr . . . oh crap. Literally. Just as I'm saying "three," he poos in the dregs of the bathwater. And lest I get too graphic, let me just say that it wasn't a little pellet either. (Our household is at the tail end of a stomach bug, if that tells you anything.)
So we heist The Squidd out of the tub, trying not to touch his lower half. We do a half-assed job of rinsing out the bottom of the tub, and then re-wash The Squidd from the waist down while he stands in the dubiously rinsed-out tub. OK, he's pretty clean. Good enough.
Rocky lifts The Squidd back out of the tub, dries him off, and is preparing to exit the bathroom, when his son--the apple of his eye--lets loose with a stream of pee, drenching Rocky's arm, and his own legs yet again. I'm laughing now but trying not to let The Squidd see that I'm laughing because This Is Not Funny, Young Man.
We repeat the stand-up washing procedure again and then race to The Squidd's bedroom to get the diaper on. I lay The Squidd down on his changing table--remember, he's nunga punga still beneath his bath towel. I lift up his legs to slide the diaper beneath when, suddenly, his little sphincter starts winking at me. Oh no, oh no!!@# Hurry!! And as I'm moving in with the diaper, the little shit pees again. Then laughs. To me it sounds a bit maniacal, like this is payback of some sort, but maybe it's just a bit hysterical because he's exhausted and on the edge. (The former makes the better story, don't you think?) Rapidly, I use the clean diaper as a shield, only removing it when I feel certain he's done peeing. Think again. The kid keeps laughing and firing off stealth pees every time I uncover him to wipe up the mess and get him locked and loaded in a clean nappy. This continues for about 5 minutes. After each interval, I try to wipe him clean with the diaper wipes, only to get another look at the "winking eye" before he goes fountain-style again. Oh, please no. I think at some point Rocky and I forgot to hide our laughter because toward the end, I think The Squidd thought it was some fun game. Great. Perfect. And by the way, how big is this kid's bladder anyway? Seriously.
Finally, 40 minutes after the bath that was meant to last 10 minutes, tops, our boy was in a clean, DRY diaper and pjs and ready for bed. In retrospect, we should've gone with Rocky's plan of no bath. (Think I'll ever win the bath-no bath debate again?)
Parenthood. There's no adventure quite like it.
And just for fun, here's a recent picture of the little booger. More soon, I promise.
