She's got a case of diarrhea. It's mild. She's not like a leaky mustard bottle, she's going like normal but the result is more spoon than fork -- if you know what I mean. I'm told it could last two weeks, this cleansing of something or other from her innards.
It's only a few degrees more liquid than her usual fare, which made me wonder how Chuck could possibly know that yesterday she was normal and today she's got diarrhea.
"Let's just say I'm never having butternut squash soup ever again," he texted back.
I took this opportunity to teach her a classic: A song I'm assuming is called The Diarrhea Song. When you're sliding into first and you feel a little burst -- diarrhea, uh-uh. Diarrhea, uh-uh. Second, disinfectant, third, a little turd, home, your pants begin to foam. You get the drill.
Reader, she loves it. She giggles through the whole song, which I sing at every diaper change. She squirms and clasps her hands together. I swear she's inserting her own uh-uhs into the refrain. It's all very fun for both of us and is quickly becoming Our Song.
Today I took a step back from the situation and realized that she's not laughing at the content. The repetitious use of the hilarious word diarrhea. The part, admittedly my favorite, where I sing about her pants begining to foam. In fact, she has no idea the degrees of humor present in this song. She's just laughing ... because.
There is so much to teach her.
Have you ever had a human being with freakishly long fingernails, perhaps even talons, treat your nipple like a doorknob? A friend wants to know.
In related news: I drew blood for the first time today, clipping one of the aforementioned talons. It went much better than the time she was like 4 seconds old and I pinched the skin on her chest while buckling her car seat and then I immediately burst into tears.
(To which Chuck said at the time: "I'm so glad it was you and not me.")
I hesitate to tell you this because when I mentioned it to the mother of a 2-year-old she told me:
"Nobody likes you. You need to stop telling people that."
Listen. I'm aware that today's norm could end up in the Rocket Blender and all of a sudden we'll be knee deep in a horrific phase that ends with me saying, through a mop of frizzed hair and smudges of week-old mascara "It's fine. It's fine. I'll just sleep when she goes to college."
But, knock wood, the PBG has a few times slept through the night. Like, super through the night. Like, into the ridiculous zone. Like, oh yeah. She's totally related to people who have yawned big and said in their most serious, albeit lazy, voices "Oh, me? I require 11 hours of sleep." She usually does well between 11 p.m. and 5 or 6 a.m. But on three occasions, she has kept right on trucking to 10 a.m.ish.
(Your grandma will tell you to never wake a sleeping baby; When your grandmother said that, her breasts probably weren't so full of milk that she could drown an entire box of Cap'n Crunch.")
The first time the PBG did it I noticed the quality of light coming through the curtains and two pancake sized drenched spots on my tank top and muttered "... the heck?!" Then I remembered she's aging before our eyes and part of that aging process means sleeping like a normal human being rather than this mini force oscillating between narcolepsy and 5-hour energy pill addict faced with a closet to organize.
Anyway, like I said, no reason to bust out the streamers. She's only done it three times.
That said: A few nights ago we couldn't get her to sleep, despite our most devious of baby-fooling tricks. It was 10 p.m., then 11 p.m. and suddenly it was 12:30 a.m. and she was a fussy mess and she'd been fed and changed and she needed toothpicks for her eyelids, but she was hanging on because she is going to always be the last one to leave a party.
I went downstairs to wash bottles and cats circled my feet and I kept dropping things and everything was terrible. Chuck came down holding the baby, her beady eyes shining, and he referred to as a "little a-hole."
We went back upstairs and re-tried some of the old tricks and finally, finally she fell asleep. I laid her in the bed and we both stood hunched over watching her sleep and Chuck whispered ever-so quietly:
I wasn't going to dress her up for Halloween because she's 0 years old and who cares? Then I realized that if I didn't dress her up, Social Services would probably pay me a visit.
I don't want to talk a lick about baby girl costumes versus baby boy costumes. If I even get started on it, Chuck will go into his rant about baby girl shoes versus baby boy shoes. (The latter being good for rugged play; The former being something good for only standing in the living room and twirling. Chuck has always been a feminist. But since having a daughter, it's shot into "Vagina Monologues" territory).
I digress. I got a little sad that I'm not a sewing sort who made something cute and meaningful for her first Halloween costume. But I think she did a bang up job with what we found and knocked cute out of the park.