4 posts tagged “poo”

• Wake, sort of
• Sheets pulling me back under like water lapping at a drowning man.
• Pillows at least a half-mile deep.
  
• Sunrise, walking the dogs, orange light, dewy grass
• Note that the dogs have gotten into a diaper somewhere, visual data from their droppings
• Shower, warm, borderline hot, needling; and smelling ever so slightly of mold
• Mental note to confer with property management agent.
• Kids, where the hell are the kids?  Bed, a yes, awake but not in trouble.
  
• Shave, note blade slightly rusty... slightly?  It is or it isn't.  It is.  Must find replacements in box somewhere.
• Coffee, java, espresso... life.  Christopher Bean Tiramisu beans.  Hot steam under pressure, voila.
• Kids, where the hell are the kids?  Ah, breakfast table, eating cereal, mostly neatly.
  
• PC to check traffic for wife's commute.  Suggest alternate route.  Avoid congestion = faster = happy.
• Sausage.  Squished medallions of porcine yumminess emitting greasy smoke.  Crisp and unburned.
• Kids, where the hell have I put the kids?  Oh, TV, Noggin, to make smart kids who are active, by sitting on their asses.  Actually very active today.  Lots of play in the dogs crates.  The pups yield the field with valor.
  
• Drag pool off patio into yard.  Do battle with insects of extraordinary size.  Extend hose.  Fill pool.
• Cuppy and a nap in crib for youngest.
• Eldest spots pool.  Much whining.
• Eldest changed into swimsuit.  Much splashing.
• Sunny.  Warm.  Chair.  Footrest.  Backyard.  Pool.  Daughter giggle.  Tanning.  Beer.
• Where the hell are the kids?  Ah, lunch.  Dry one off, dress, table, peanut butter toast in the face.  Wake other up, dry off bum, change diaper, reapply clothes, table/high-chair, peanut butter toast, on the face and the hair, and the floor, to the puppies.
• Pool, splashing, two daughters giggling, warm, sun, chair, footrest, tanning, beer.
• Tired tantrums.  Nap for one.  Quiet puzzle time for two.  Microwave, processed-cheese on tortilla chip rounds Nachos for me.  Lookie, BBC America, and Discovery Science Channel and way too many others to ever flip through.
• PC time with the eldest.   Lots of Nick, Jr games.
• Checking on wife's commute home, suggest alternate route, ignored.
• Wife stuck in traffic, finally aborts and attempts suggested route.
• Dinner, sirloin tip under the broiler, finished with blue cheese, bovine bliss.
• Music and dancing and craziness on the coffee table and lots of shoulder rides and tummy-floor-swing-rocker rides.
• Kids asleep, nightlights on.  Grown-ups on the patio with matches and marble, and green faeries dancing with the fireflies in the treeline down the hill along the creek.
• Sweet tea and vodka.
  
• Marital aerobics.
• Oblivion.
  

What is your current obsession(s)?
Submitted by eijsr.

Keeping my daughter's hands out of her plumbing during soiled nappy changes.

It's a contest between us currently.

She really wants a poo-hand.

I really do not want her to have a poo-hand.

Thus far, we've shared the result.

Why is it that some baby clothes are designed in a manner that necessitates
dragging the seat of them over the babies head / face to remove them?

Why is it that some idiot having designed them, we actually possess some of these items?

Why is it that having possessed these items, we actually use them to dress our daughter?

The problem occurs when the infant evacuates her bowels... all of them... at once... during her nap.

Ain't a diaper been made that can handle that load volume.

Which incurs seepage onto and to a strained extent through her outfit.

The outfit must then be removed to address the fecal carnage well beyond the confines of the routine diaper change.

And with these outfits, that means dragging the soiled bits right over the tike's face.

Mind you, I tried to minimize the contamination by rushing her, gingerly with outstretched arms, to the bathtub to conduct a preliminary rinse, but there's no getting around the removal process that dictates face/seat-of-pants contact.

These variety of outfit will never, ever be purchased or even obtained for free under my watch in the future.

StubbornGoat

So, I started this post five times,

and made no progress with the earlier attempts.

I've got a good feeling about this one, in that Jedi good feeling about this one way.

My youngest, almost five months, is the bane of my blogging attempts.

Of well, any of my hobbies actually.

Even my nutritional intake.

To grab a bite of lunch, usually around 3PM requires placing her somewhere secure that is mostly out of earshot for the 5 minutes it takes to nuke and consume a prepared soup, nachos, or a frozen leanpocket-type pastry.

I can still hear her anyway.

Gives me heartburn.

The poor, poor person that falls for that one eventually is going to have more on their hands than their heart bargains for.

Her one or two daily naps are blessed relief.

These, in the main, she does not coordinate with her older sister's napping schedule.

Her soiled diddies however, she does synchronize.

I've got to get the older one potty-trained to decrease that particular workload.

She has the control.  In fact she waits me out while I have her placed on the appropriate seat...
until I give in and dethrone her, then she releases while I'm putting her diaper back on.

My hands have learned to work quick in these vulnerable positions.

Cuing from her sister, the youngest one has become adept at taking cheap shots as well.

I've been pee'd on three times and poo'd on twice in the last month.

Sure, some call it a living, but I'm not in the German scheisse-film actors guild, so I can't receive payment.

See, the strategy of the youngest is to use a different matter-state of projectile than her older sister.

You block it straight up the middle, it blitzes from the edges.

I've made adjustments to change her diddies from the shotgun position now.

In other miscreant parenting news, when I find my 2.5 year old doing something mildly inappropriate, I attempt to find a creative way for her to expand her skill set, by doing whatever she's doing even more inappropriately.

Two recent examples:

The rocking cow (yes, she has a cow, not a horse, you conformists).
She sometimes uses it as a platform to lauch a jump off of instead of sitting on it and well, rocking.
Instead of scolding her and telling her to sit in the saddle and rock like the manufacturer expects her to, I show her that if she moves the cow closer to the arm of the couch, she can run up to the cow, bounce off of its saddle, tuck into a roll on the arm of the couch and do a flip onto the seat cushions.

Crayons.
She sometimes grabs a hairbrush that my wife has left on the kitchen table and pushes the crayons through the hole in the shaft of the grip that is exactly the circumference of a crayon.
Instead of telling her to leave her mother's hairbrush alone and to color with the crayons on paper, I show her how to load a crayon partway through the hole in the brush, position a box across the table, then smartly slap the crayon through the hole, firing it at the box, scoring a point for each crayon that strikes its target.
We review the colors of each crayon immediately before the missile is sent down range.

"We're a happy family, we're a happy family, we're a happy family, meet mom and daddy..."  - Ramones