Baby Dude comes sauntering into the room, tippy-toeing behind me, in his scheming attempts to keep the crap in his shorts a secret. But no matter how gingerly he stepped, the odor wafting up from his trousers made my eyes water. “Dude, did you poop?”
“No! Don’t change me, mom!”
That seems to be his answer every time. Sign #1 he’s ready to potty train, he wants to keep his privates to himself.
I call out to Baby Sis to fetch me another diaper and wipes, while I full-nelson him to the ground to get him to be changed. She arrives, saving me from the stench, and he’s off in a couple minutes with a fresher butt and my nose hairs aren’t badly singed.
Not but a few minutes pass, and he’s back, tippy-toeing once more to retrieve whatever he set out to retrieve to begin with. Another horrible odor infiltrates my nostrils. “What the heck!? Baby, did you poop AGAIN!?!?”
“NO! Don’t change me, mom!”
“Are you fricken SERIOUS, man? Again!?!”
Sure enough, I check. Houston, we have poop.
Before I call out to her to get me a diaper, Baby Sis comes in, also doing some weird tippy-toe thing. “Hey, Baby, can you get me another diaper. He pooped AGAIN.”
“Ohhhhhh!” she whines at me, fetching what I need while I plop a snarling and unappreciative Baby Dude down for another ass-wiping.
She quickly darts in, still on her toes, throws the diaper at me without aiming, stepping over her brother, proclaiming now SHE has to use the restroom and go poop.
WHAT!? You, too?
And, just in time, applying Baby Dude’s diaper, there she beckons me to go wipe her, as she’s now finished. 3 poops, 10 minutes. What the crap? (Literally.)
Kids, 3. Mom, 0. Dude.
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