Saturday, May 23, 2009

Shit happens

Punk has a horrible, yeasty diaper rash.
I have done the baking soda baths,
I have slathered her with fungal creams and diaper creams and cream of tartar and coconut cream pie (sorry, was on a cream tangent there) to ease the pain in her poor hoo hoo. (Yes, we call it a hoo hoo. And the boys have Little Misters and Wingnuts)
So last night, having a moment of brilliance, I let her have naked time to air our her nether regions.
It was going well. She was thrilled to be free and easy. I got more shots of her butt as she hoisted in in the air than I ever needed, but she was happy and that was what mattered.
Until I looked over and saw a stinky prairie dog coming out of my child.
I ran over, grabbed her, and ACTUALLY PUT MY HAND OUT TO CATCH THE OFFENDING NUGGET BEFORE IT FELL.Luckily, it missed my hand. I don't know what I would have done when faced with a handful of shit, but it was reflex.
Leaving the turdling behind, I ran to the changing table to wipe her up and get something to pick up the brown steaming nugget.
When I came back, I found The Man standing there, looking from me to the nugget and glowering.
"It's on my floor."
"That I just mopped."
"Okay." Dangerous ground. The Man sweeps and mops DAILY, and we're not allowed to even wear shoes in our house for fear of angering our own Mr. Clean.
"Put a diaper on her. Now."
"Nope." Then, while clutching the child and hoping I didn't a get peed on, I explained how yeast grows in damp, warm environments and that having Punk run around bare assed would help the yeast not grow any more.
Punk just grin at him. I'm sure she was thinking about dropping another load on his floor, but thankfully, she restrained herself.
He shook his head and stomped off, and I dealt with the offending offal. All the while Punk chattered, "Poo, poo, dada, poo!"
Which were my thoughts exactly.

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