Bathtime is not for the squeamish.
Man, there is nothing like bathtime to make your kid have to pinch a loaf.
Today Uncle Nate is coming to town on business--well, not my town of course, because I live in hicksville and I doubt there's one single server in this whole county. What this means in the life of weaktoast is accomplishing nothing short of an improbable alignment of Sun, moon, my daughter, and my managing keeping her hair and clothes undishevelled between now and the time my husband gets home from work--no, between now and the time we get out of the car in Austin. Right now, faithful readers, as I write my very first blog, my daughter is in the bathtub. I am sitting beside her, eternally grateful for wireless internet access and my 9 month old laptop, not to mention inspiration.
Let me tell you something about mothering: I promise you're better at it than I am, even if you aren't anatomically fitted for the job. I've known moms (mine, for example) who have bragged about potty training their daughters in one day. One day, and at the age of two even. It took me a year and a half to potty train my kid, and let's just say we're not bowling a 300 in that lane yet.
In the course of this bath, she's gotten out three times to use the toilet. Keep in mind that she used it right before she initially climbed in, and you understand my surprise. Three times she's declared to me, loudly, "MOMMY I HAVE TO GO POOP!" This sort of announcement sets the gears in motion. I stand and lean first to the sink (where I have to put my dear laptoasty down) and then spin on my heel back to the bathtub to help her scramble out onto the ridiculously slick tile floor. I then pick her up--no small feat considering she's spread shampoo all over herself to "shave"--and plunk her down on the toilet. She makes ungodly faces, then proudly stands and looks into the toilet only to say:
"Awwwww, look! It's so cute. A baby poop and a mommy poop."
I shit you not.
Today Uncle Nate is coming to town on business--well, not my town of course, because I live in hicksville and I doubt there's one single server in this whole county. What this means in the life of weaktoast is accomplishing nothing short of an improbable alignment of Sun, moon, my daughter, and my managing keeping her hair and clothes undishevelled between now and the time my husband gets home from work--no, between now and the time we get out of the car in Austin. Right now, faithful readers, as I write my very first blog, my daughter is in the bathtub. I am sitting beside her, eternally grateful for wireless internet access and my 9 month old laptop, not to mention inspiration.
Let me tell you something about mothering: I promise you're better at it than I am, even if you aren't anatomically fitted for the job. I've known moms (mine, for example) who have bragged about potty training their daughters in one day. One day, and at the age of two even. It took me a year and a half to potty train my kid, and let's just say we're not bowling a 300 in that lane yet.
In the course of this bath, she's gotten out three times to use the toilet. Keep in mind that she used it right before she initially climbed in, and you understand my surprise. Three times she's declared to me, loudly, "MOMMY I HAVE TO GO POOP!" This sort of announcement sets the gears in motion. I stand and lean first to the sink (where I have to put my dear laptoasty down) and then spin on my heel back to the bathtub to help her scramble out onto the ridiculously slick tile floor. I then pick her up--no small feat considering she's spread shampoo all over herself to "shave"--and plunk her down on the toilet. She makes ungodly faces, then proudly stands and looks into the toilet only to say:
"Awwwww, look! It's so cute. A baby poop and a mommy poop."
I shit you not.
posted by weaktoast at 9:26 AM
2 Comments:
hoorah! i love you and i love neva. she is good at the art of poop. and the art of bath suds.
She didn't fart or make any noise? She's got Houdini poop.
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