Funny thing happened the other day.
It was the night of Jacob’s first bath. Which, being the lazy parents that we are, consisted of throwing him in the shower with Ben so I could simultaneously run around like a maniac and try to get the girls cleaned up and ready for bed while folding 500 loads of laundry.
If you haven’t tried this particular method of parenting, I recommend it. Not the running around maniacally part, but the infant in the shower part. Babies love it and it saves time while being eco-friendly. (Are you convinced am I just not lazy yet?)
Anyways, so as Ben is preparing for bath time, I suddenly hear a panicked cry.
“Chaunie, I need help!!” Ben bellowed from the cavern of the bathroom. “He’s pooping in my hand!”
Turning the girls’ bath into a shower so I didn’t have to worry about them drowning, I rushed into the other bathroom… armed with two towels and prepared to launch in to full-on poop clean-up duty. After kicking down the bathroom door bad-cop style, I crouched in the wide-legged defensive stance of all moms on a cleaning rampage everywhere and surveyed the scene in front of me, fully expecting to find trails of that special brand of yellowy, mustard newborn poop everywhere.
My eyes did a quick sweep of my husband and naked baby from head to toe.
I glanced around the room for signs of poop–the shower maybe? Along the walls? Splattered on the sink?
Nada. Nope. No.
Instead, all that stood before me was my husband, eyes widened in panic as he held Jacob upright in his arms, one hand supporting his bottom, the other cradling his head.
My friends, what my dear, frightened husband was holding was not the offensive pile of poop as he suspected…
But our son’s balls.
I guess this whole boy thing is going to take some getting used to.