Who would ever guess in this litagatious society obsessed with safety, that all things "baby" should sport the following warning highlited in florescent yellow: WARNING: ANY ATTEMPTS AT REMOVING THIS OBJECT FROM FACOTRY PACKAGING COULD RESULT IN IMPALEMENT, AMPUTATION OR FATALITY. the manufacturer bears no liability in any injuries that may ensue.
Seriously. I got Kyle a little giraffe thingy that clips onto his car seat. The poor giraffe's head and all FOUR legs were shackled with plastic tags strong enough to hold down the space shuttle! I nearly took off my thumb and stabbed myself in the spleen trying to remove that darned toy from it's packaging. I wonder why they make baby stuff so people proof? I've seen iPods with less secure packaging....
Life is a litter box. Motherhood is a litter box - sometimes literally! Kyle introduced me to one of his talents today. It was around the noon hour and I was giving him a bottle while watching some home decorating show on the Discovery Channel. My nose began to twitch, and my eyes watered. Little Kyle was filling his diaper. I burped him, and did what any mother would do - shift him into the under-the-arm football hold and hike to the changing pad on the floor in his room. After wrestling with the wiggling, screaming infant, I discovered my nose proved right: Sir Robert Poopsalot had struck again! I removed the poopy diaper holding both of his legs in the air for easy tush access. All of a sudden, I saw a twitch. Before I knew what was happening, a steady blast of chunky peanut butter baby poo hit me coating my right leg, left sock and slipper. I screamed. Curious animals crept into the room, the dog thinking he might land a tasty snack. I screamed. Chloe ran out of the room. I screamed. And screamed. I was covered in poo, not knowing what to do. Carefully I manuvered my poopy parts out of the way and proceeded to put a clean diaper on Kyle and dress him. I left him laying there as I ran downstairs (relax, he was on the floor) to strip off the stinky jeans, socks and slippers. Once I was free of fecal matter, I returned to a sleeping baby. Kneeling by his side, I gently put my hands behind his little back making sure to support his floppy head with my fingers. He felt very warm. And very wet. I rolled him over. He was laying in a puddle of yellow liquid. My heart skipped a beat and I sniffed. Yup. Pee. Apparantly while I was screaming about the poo while the naked baby lay on the changing pad, he peed. Needless to say I had to start all over again. At the hospital the nurses told me that newborns only need baths every 3 to 4 days because they don't get dirty. THAT'S A LIE, PEOPLE! Tell me my muffin man didn't get himself dirty today. Not only did he get himself dirty, but ME!
So, therefore, Kyle demonstrated his talent of making butt-rockets. His aim is quite accurate. I'm glad it wasn't my face.
The joy in this litterbox? He's opening his eyes more, and longer. He looks at me and studies my face. How cool is that?