I think I’ve mentioned in the past that Diana has instituted “Family Bath Time” with Elijah. Which means jumping in the tub with the boy for some hilarity. Eli loves it. So does Di, because most days it’s the only way she can take a bath of her own.
I’m not as wild about it. Mostly because I don’t like to leave my chest hair and other important stuff open to grabby 10-month-old hands.
But last night Diana beat me down into reluctantly bathing with Eli. I’ll admit he’s pretty great when he’s tub-bound. He splashes, he crams all 150 bath toys into his mouth and generally screeches like a happy monkey. And last night he avoided ripping out anything important.
So long after the tub cooled off and both of us were prunes, I hollered for Diana to take Eli upstairs to dry off and apply baby lotion. Boy gone, I set to collecting all manner of rubber duckie, sponge and octopus. And what do I find?
A giant Eli poop.
I leapt up screaming, “Doodie! Doodie!” Diana, thinking I was being attacked, came running in. She took one look at the fecal submarine laughed her butt off. As someone who has been peed on numerous times, it was just desserts.
I proceeded to shower for 45 minutes, scrubbing several layers of epidermis off. My skin is raw today.
2 comments:
OK--Poop is "just dessert?" Surely you meant "just deserts." Because the chocolate I have for dessert is way better than a poop.
--English Teacher
Tub pooping must be an inherited trait. Your Grandfather Ed did the same thing to me when I was 8 years old and he was 1. My reaction was much the same as that of the swimmers in the pool in the movie Caddy Shack. If only it had been a Baby Ruth then too.
Uncle Dick
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