Hi there. Face here.
(90s kids unite)
How was your long weekend? Filled with picnics, family, fireworks, and rest, I hope.
Mine involved a lot of ass.
When Wednesday evening rolled around, I was chipper-ly beginning to pack for our weekend at the lake while waiting for Dave to get home from his fourth 12-hour shift in a row. The baby had just finished a two-hour screaming marathon that neither breast nor begging could relieve, so I settled for holding him with one hand while packing with my other hand and my toes (a newly acquired skill set). I was just elated that I could once again hear my own thoughts.
Once the better parent walked through the door and showered off the hospital grime, I happily passed off the baby and sat down to finish some work before leaving town the next day. But my head was killing me. I mean, killing me. I attributed the ringing in my ears and colossal cranial split to the aforementioned crying-sesh and decided to call it an early night.
1 a.m. rolled around too quick and the George awoke for a midnight snack. My head still hurt like the dickens, and my body was achy all over. I knew what that meant: fever. So while Dave was feeding the baby, I decided to take my temperature.
I grabbed the thermometer from the medicine cabinet, turned it on, and waited for the permissive beep. What happened next occurred in what seemed like a 2 second instant. As I was waiting for the thermometer to start up, Dave suggested that I sanitize the thermometer before using it. Being a nurse, he is typically more
phobic cautious about germs than I am. He’s one of those people that wipes down every inch of the shopping cart at the grocery store and claims that his scrubs are constantly covered in MRSA (love you babe). Not I. Thus, I quickly dismissed his suggestion to wipe down the thermometer, mumbled something about us “all being family and sharing germs anyway” and stuck that bad boy underneath my tongue.
Dave then held his tongue for a brief moment before declaring: “Honey, the last time that thermometer was used … was rectally.”
Monumental gags ensued and I brushed my teeth for a longer stretch than the Patton kids and resolved to always ALWAYS wash any and all thermometers in the future.
Fast forward to the next night when we were all fever-free and at the cabin. George once again woke up at his favorite 1 a.m. time and demanded to be fed.this.INSTANT! I obliged and, after the king had eaten his feast, I passed him off to Dave for changing and burping and rested my head once more against the pillow in hopes of dreaming lovely dreams.
All of a sudden, I hear Dave holler out and scream something about helping him. I groggily sat up and inquired about the apparent emergency. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I witnessed the incredible blowout that George had accomplished … sans diaper. Yep, while Dave was changing him, he let it rip and the, umm, contents went everywhere, including: the changing pad, the bedspread, his clothes, and Dave. ALL over Dave.
As George bore a wide grin that displayed the most blatant pride, Dave bore a look of horror as he declared: “I’ve never been shit on so much in my life … not even by a patient”. With that, he ran to the bathroom to clean up while I giggled uncontrollably and held George’s feet in the air so as to avoid contact with his spoils.
George? Still grinning.
Once Dave rinsed off, we decided that the baby needed a bottom-half-bath and stuck him in the bathtub for a quick hose down. After the baby was clean, I wrapped him in a towel while Dave went to fetch a clean diaper. George smiled up at me with that same irresistible grin, and I proceeded to gush over him audibly. I kept telling him how adorable he was all wrapped up in that towel, and he smiled back joyfully.
Joyfully? Wrong. Mischievously.
Then, I felt something warm run down my shirt. Warm and wet. I feared the worse and my wildest fears were realized when I peeled the baby away from my body. I got hosed. BIG TIME. Right then, Dave returned to the bathroom, gave me a once over, and returned the laugh-fest that I ensued upon him only moments before.
We spent the next sleepless minutes laughing along with the culprit, because, what else can you do?
So next year, on the Fourth, if I complain about loud fireworks keeping the child awake or crazy kids riding their bikes in the street like madmen, remind me of this weekend, ok? Because although those situations are annoying, they are licit during the Fourth; this situation, however, was anything butt.