I lolled about a bit this morning after I finished my last post. I returned to the warmth of our bed and Justin Timberlake's SNL on the DVR. Ahhh....As my friend Lorie says, "he's not hard to look at." After a warm shower, a clean outfit, and brushed teeth, I was ready to face the world. I ran a bath for Adam and Ismael brought him back to the bedroom. We had a great time playing peek a book and listening to baby squeals while we took off his pajamas.
Then the diaper.
I gave it the requisite "poop check," determined it to be negative, and whipped it off of him like a magician with a tablecloth and a table full of dishes.
A small ball rolled to the side.
Ismael flipped out.
He was right. It was poop.
I had flung poop across our bedroom. Fabulous.
Adam squealed with delight and did his naked, happy dance on the bed while I looked for something to pick up the offensive ball. Ismael was just grossed out.
I took care of that, bathed and dressed Adam and headed out for church. The plan was to meet my mother at church and then my sister's family at a local Mexican restaurant for lunch. It seems to be our tradition born from the fact that they have fast service and no line on Mother's Day. We are expedient people. Plus they give flowers to all the mothers.
My very quiet baby turns into a wiggle worm at mass, so I stick a bottle in his mouth upon arrival and pray for the days when he would sleep through the service. In the process of putting the bottle in his mouth, Mom somehow bent the nipple in half and formula shot in a steady stream up in the air and all over the pew in front of us. While no one sustained a direct hit, I did recieve a dirty look from the 9 year old in front of me for our bad behavior. As for my son, he chose to throw up on me and not the 9 year old. What did I do?
I made it all the way to communion with out any more incidents or disapproving children. I did realize, however, that my son was squeezed into a pair of pants that have become too small in what seems like a matter of days. As I returned to my seat, the man in front of me told me we had a leak. Sure enough, the remaining formula in that bottle leaked out of the bottom of my bag and was running like a narrow white river down the aisle. I whipped out the "receiving blanket" that I use as a huge burp rag for my vomiting son and cleaned up the aisle. No time like the present, though other parishioners probably wondered why I was three rows up with my butt in the air.
On to our Mother's Day Mexican Fiesta. The sign out front again promised flowers and free ice cream to all mom's as well as half price margaritas. Score.
My sister Judy, her husband Chris, and their kids Ryan and Erin were already waiting at the restaurant. Judy once said to a friend, "I don't bring my kids to church," in a voice that meant at their age they were too squirmy to sit through an hour long mass. It sounded to me like she really meant "My kids are so bad, I can't even bring them to Jesus." They really aren't, but the silence of mass seems to amplify every whisper of a three year old.
We enjoyed a speedy lunch along with free carnations, vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce, sans margaritas. Mom asked for a picture with the grandkids as we left. Apparently the children didn't get the message it was a national holiday requiring their attention.
They were unimpressed...more interested in napping than marking the momentous occasion with focus and smiles. My son, in his short pants, still thinks he is a star... he just thinks the camera is in the bushes.
Next year, maybe I'll stay home in my PJs all day.
No comments:
Post a Comment