Because of my silly work schedule, Diana gets up with Elijah 6 days a week. So the least I can do is let her sleep one day, which is officially Saturday, which is today. The boy child is putting in some nice rack time, so I was pleasantly unsurprised when he starting calling out for some attention at 6:45 this morning.
Now, I’ve never claimed to know what I’m doing with Eli. Diana has been responsible for keeping both Eli and I alive these last seven months (we don’t count the ear surgery month that lives in infamy). But I know my way around a baby. It’s not like I accidentally leave him on our car hood Saturday mornings. I can make a bottle like a champ. And I can get him into a cute outfit, provided it’s a zipper outfit and doesn’t have anything weird like a hood.
But this morning, I could not put on his diaper. No I wasn’t too hung over (much). Nor did I hit my head. The boy had a serious case of the wiggles. I got him on his changing table, got the diaper off fine. But then he started squirreling around like a crazy baby. He’d flip over, exposing his dangerous rump. I’d flip him back (exposing his dangerous front) and he’d kick his legs and flail his arms and flip back over. All with a grin that can only be described as “devilish.” Grover didn’t help at all. He just sat there and look at me as if to say, “The lady would’ve had me outside emptying my bladder by now.”
I considered taking my chances and putting him in an outfit sans-diaper. But that ticking time bomb cannot be defused.
After about ten minutes I subdued him enough to get a very, saggy, off center diaper on him.
p.s. Apparently the stuffed lamb has officially been named "Lulu." I much preferred "Carlos."
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