This morning, I almost didn't make it out of my house.
I got Sam on the bus -- woo-hoo! this is far from an everyday occurrence -- and then I turned to Mr. Noah, who was having peanut butter bread for breakfast.
I'm not sure how much he really ate. I am sure of how much he smeared into his hair, onto his neck and onto his shirt.
So I had to rip off his clothes, which constituted the last clean outfit that fit him. I scrubbed his head with a wet Bounty paper towel -- take a moment here to imagine the hollering I got from a 15-month-old for this -- and then scrubbed his head with a second wet Bounty paper towel because the first one fell apart.
Then I dragged him up the stairs, raided his closet for clothes that don't yet fit him and buried him in them.
Cut to the bathroom, where I was frantically trying to get myself ready to go as he wandered around unsorting and unorganizing everything he could get his grubby little hands on. But at least he was busy running around while I was busy running around.
And then he stopped and stood completely still. This alarmed me, since he's never still.
I looked over at him, and there he was, grunting and squinting and making his poopy face.
"No!" I hollered.
Thankfully, it wasn't one of those poopies that make their escape from the diaper and sully whatever cute -- or oversized -- ensemble your kid is wearing.
But because of my previous ministrations, Noah was not at all interested in lying still. So I spent the next five minutes trying to put a clean diaper on a Tasmanian devil.
We finally fell out the door (literally, because Noah forgot about the little step) about 15 minutes late.
Left inside my house, however, was a bathroom floor littered with shampoo, conditioner and soap bottles; a kitchen with dishes in the sink and a high-chair tray smeared with peanut butter and bread chunks; and a baby's room with the lingering smell of poop.
*Note to my husband: Sorry about the mess, honey! Hope once you read this, you'll understand!
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