Last night was one of those humbling moments when you realize how unimportant your priorities were before becoming a parent.
So we’re driving home from a hectic, long day at the mall where Noah missed his second nap and desperately needed to catch his third. We figured that the 30 minute car ride would knock him out, and it did. For maybe 5 minutes.
Justin: Did you hear something?
Me, listening over the music: No…
Justin: Huh. I thought I heard gurgling.
Me: Maybe he’s putting himself back to sleep.
We pulled into our driveway and Justin got out to unbuckle our wide-awake, smiling child.
Justin: Oh. My. God.
Justin, laughing: Oh, you’ll see. Mommy will see, won’t she?
I got out of the car, made my way around to where Justin was standing and looked down at Noah. There wasn’t leakage, no. There were clumps of poop oozing from behind both legs, completely saturating his car seat. His bare legs were laying in actual poop.
Oh my god.
I picked him up and held him out at arms length, carrying him like toxic waste throughout the house and up the stairs while he laughed and kicked, flinging poop as he went.
Justin started to run a bath as I continued to hold this clearly amused baby by the underarms, waiting for the hot water to kick on. And I waited. And I waited.
Wouldn’t you know, the hot water never came on.
Turns out our oil tank was empty and our landlord — who has sole control over the tank on her side of the house — neglected to inform us it was running low. Which, normally, would only be slightly annoying except for the fact that I’m holding a child DRIPPING IN HUMAN FECES.
No Noah, this is not funny.
After sponge bathing him and wiping him down with, oh I don’t know, a gagillion wipes, we called it a night.
I’ve discovered that Mommy’s Law is the Murphy’s Law clause that specifically involves poop.