Last night, at about 3am, I was woken up by my girlfriend Stephanie, hysterically begging for help. Our daughter, just 8 days old, was having a very epic diaper change. For those of you without children, you should know that infants have powerful shits that can scar your cortex permanently. I sprung out of bed, hazily shaking off the confusion from being jolted out of my dream, (I'm pretty sure I was fighting orcs in it) only to find that our daughter had crapped directly into Steph's bare hand. Like Indiana Jones lifting the chalice from the ancient pedestal, Phoebe had blessed Stephanie with a goblet of feces to be carried away by her pretty, manicured hand. It was on the crib sheets, in was on my bed sheets. The dirty wipes dripped down my arm as I tried to rush them downstairs and into the trash. There was poop in my bed, where we (stupidly) put her when the crib was taking hits. It's all over my (expensive enough to be ashamed of) Ikea rug. The worst part? Hours after clean-up and an attempt to fall back asleep, as I prepared to make breakfast this morning, I found a couple pieces that I missed still under my fingernails.
Grossest part of that story? You own a $200 Ikea rug.
ReplyDelete"It's all over my (expensive enough to be ashamed of) Ikea rug."
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