A Post About...

Poo.  Taylor calculated that since Seth was born, I've changed over 2000 diapers, so a post on this topic was inevitable. Seth has this new habit of having a dirty diaper a couple hours after going to bed.  Now he is an excellent sleeper (post on this to come), and said poo is discovered by sleepy parents who are checking on him one last time before they go to bed.  However, we cannot bear to let him sleep in it all night.  And the possibility of it waking him up after we have gone to bed for the night is not a risk we're willing to take.  It's hard enough to change a diaper without a foggy brain.  It would be easier to just let him sleep, and pray it didn't wake him up, but as his parents, we're not willing to let him stay in the mire as it were.  Sounds like another Father I know.

I have tried everything to deter this stinky habit.  And by everything I mean I give him bananas as part of his dinner.  Apparently he now has no problem digesting bananas.  And I am willing to bet that if I knew more about science, then I would understand why this doesn't work.

So at 10 pm, after Seth has been sound asleep for 3 hours and that tell-tale smell is wafting into the hallway, Taylor and I rock, paper, scissors* who gets to be the one to pick up our peacefully sleepy baby and subject him to cold wet wipes** and a probable pajama change (we're in desperate need of a pee pee tee-pee - those of you with boys know what I'm talking about.). This whole scenario is not a pretty sight.  Peacefully sleeping baby turns into a wriggling/screaming baby that isn't excited to go back to bed.

We've tried all sorts of methods to make this experience less harrowing for all involved: having paci*** handy, keeping the lights off, and wearing a head lamp. So neighbors, if you see a small red light  coming from our window between 10 and 11 pm, there isn't a sniper rifle trained on you, Seth is just getting his diaper changed.

Last night, I lost the farkle.  I went in as armed as possible.  I was determined not to have to change his pajamas in addition to the diaper.  My arsenal was made up of paci, two flashlights, the head lamp, and a lot of kleenex to act as make shift tee-pee (again, my science is lacking).

I carefully picked him up out of his crib, gingerly laid him on the changing table, and popped the paci in his mouth, successfully keeping him asleep.  The bigger instrument for waking baby was yet to come.  The cold wet wipes.

I set up the flashlights, put on the head lamp, pulled out about a million wipes from the box, and began my mission.  I quickly ditched the head lamp as I thought about how freaky it would be to wake up to someone staring down at you with a red light beaming from their forehead.  Good thing because immediately after beginning the process of changing the diaper, Seth's eyes popped open and paci popped out.  I frantically grasped for paci at the same time Seth grabbed ahold of one of the flashlights.  I held my breath and waited for the inevitable screaming to commence, but something had caught his attention.  He was fascinated by the wrist band connected to the end.  Seeing how he now had the light perfectly aimed for me to be able to see what I was doing, I took this once in a lifetime opportunity and changed that diaper faster than you can say poo.  Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Seth did not cry during the diaper change, no one got tinkled on, and he went back to bed after giving me a smile and rolling over on his side.  Angel Baby indeed!

Not to over-spiritualize this, but I got to thinking.  How much easier is it to let our Father deal with our sin than to fight Him as he cleans us up?

All I know is once we let Him deal with the mess, we're more likely to wake up like this in the morning:

*I will now on refer to this as farkling because it's shorter, and according to T Bar M, that is what it's called.

** And no, due to my hyper-first time parent, rule following tendencies, we do not have a wipe warmer because to me:

paper+electricity=bad idea

***aka pacifier, dummy, nuk etc

You Get What You Pay For

Here in Scotland we have socialized medicine.  Great on the wallet, but who cares when you're sick?

I have been sick since last Tuesday (cold, flu, not sure).  Usually I don't stay sick for longer than 3 days.  It's been 8.  I went to the doctor on day four because obviously I had been sick for long enough.

Wrong.

I went in and explained my many symptoms that were keeping me from being able to take care of my 9 month old and causing my husband to play Mr. Mom instead of working on his PhD expecting to be given a Z Pack and start feeling better by the next day.

Instead I got an antibiotic that "probably won't do you any good since it's most likely a virus" and was told to come back Monday if I still felt bad over the weekend.  Monday morning I call and make my appointment, but can't actually see the doctor that saw me Friday.

New doc, after hearing all of my symptoms, proceeds to tell me to come back if I still feel bad at the end of the month. Seriously?  It was April 4th.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

I love our apartment complex.

Love. It.

Lots of neighborly love going on around here.  Sometimes too much.

I thought this exchange an apt depiction and hilarious glimpse into our little community:


** Disclaimer: The following is a conversation between two of the kids from our complex to one of their moms.  I'm changing their names to protect the innocent honest.**

Picture Emily : she is a striking 6 year old, first child, extremely articulate, and I am completely jealous of her wardrobe.  She has a mustard color peacoat that is to die for!

Picture Timothy: he is 5 years old, also a first child, full of energy, a born leader.

Picture Timothy's mom: she is from the South, mom of three, and the most hilarious woman in our apartment complex.  Just think of her as a female Taylor - she's that funny.

They happened to be out in the garden on an uncharacteristically quiet day (usually the garden is buzzing with activity the minute school lets out now that it actually stays light past 3 pm).  Emily and Timothy had been playing with another little girl, Holly, who doesn't live in our complex. After awhile, Timothy's mom noticed he and Emily weren't playing with Holly anymore.  She called them over and asked what was going on.

Timothy piped up, "We're having trouble getting along with Holly." This was obvious and the reason Timothy's mom had called them over in the first place, but experienced mom that she is, she replied,

"Oh," cocking her head to the side and solemnly nodding, drawing the kids in for further explanation.  She's a good listener like that.  Makes you want to tell her things.  Experienced Mom Trick that I need to perfect so I'm ready once Seth can say more than "hi", "dada", and "mama."

I digress.

So back to Timothy's mom nodding solemnly...

"But," Emily chimed in with an equally solemn expression, "we decided to do what the Bible says."

Timothy's mom, now on the edge of her seat, asked (keeping her poker face of course), "which part?"

"Treat others how you want to be treated," Emily said matter-of-factly.  Timothy's mom calmly commented, "that is a really good idea," while doing mental fist pumps and singing the Hallelujah Chorus in her head.

Emily continued, "so we tried that.

Twice.

That didn't work.  So we decided to treat Holly the way she was treating us."



Priceless.



Since I can't include a photo of them (though I am sure they will show up on here some other time), here are some photos of some of what we were up to in March.

Talking with Mr. Frog

Hanging out with bff

Hiking the Crags

Playing with our toes

Singing

Trying to grab the camera

Just plain being cute

Lots of cuteness going on here