As I type this blog, my 2 month old daughter sleeps peacefully on the bed next to me. She is wrapped up in what USED to be MY robe, but has now become HER blanket. Since she can't seem to fall asleep without Mommy or Daddy holding her, we've decided to pull a big, fat second grade SIKE(!) on the little one and let her THINK we're holding her, when really we are just wrapping her in clothes that smell like us (which could be a good thing or borderline child abuse depending on the day and time), so that we can continue on with our lives.
From the den of all things loud and obnoxious, otherwise known as the living room, I hear my twelve year old almost-stepson getting loud (and yes, obnoxious) and my fiance' getting louder. I am thankful to be tucked away with my darling, sweet, beautiful princess...the world outside my door is drama filled, tv blaring, and ummmm...yeah I just noticed that it's also fresh air filled. That darling, sweet, beautiful princess that I just ranted and raved about just filled the fresh air of our little sanctuary with the worst smelling poop this side of the Jersey Turnpike. How could something so incredibly foul come out of something so tiny?? It's not like the girl was up pounding back Milwaukee's Best all day (come on, we ALL know cheap beer makes for a stinky morning)! All she drinks is formula - and SOY FORMULA at that!!! Damn. And because I have holed myself up back here, I am the lucky contestant who gets to change the Diaper of Death.
As I turn my daughter onto her back I pray to the good Lord above that He might spare my nostrils, that they in fact WON'T burst into flames as soon as this evilness is unleashed, and that He would let me live to see another day. Of course that means that I run the risk of meeting the same fate tomorrow, but I will take my chances. Just as I finish giving myself my last rights, I look down at Princess Poopie Pants. She is bright and shiny, smiling cooing, and completley oblivious to not only the load in her diaper, but also the rumblings going on outside our door. Yes, 12 year old and fiance' are at it yet again - and she could care less. All she sees is mommy, and all she hears is mommy's voice. And apparently that's all she needs at this point and time. That's when it hits me like - well, like the smell of her Death Diaper hit me. Poop is temporary. In life. In your pants. On your finger...it's temporary. It doesn't matter and is fairly insignificant. But true, real, love...the love that you give and get just because you are fabulously you....well now that's the real deal. The economy is slow? Ok. Having trouble making that car payment? Alright. My 12 year old almost-stepson threw a dirty diaper onto the roof of the house and then lied to me about it and I had to find out the truth by getting onto the hood of my car (and almost broke my neck), getting the bag down and smelling it myself after it had been out in the hot Houston summer heat for the past 48 hours? That sucks. Okay, that way more than sucks. WAY MORE. But then my tiny inchworm of a daughter spits up into my bra, and as I feel the already digested formula nestle itself in the confines of my cleavage, I look down. She is looking up at me adoringly, showing me all her non-existent teeth. Her eyes twinkle as if to say "But I love you mommy!", and that's when it all goes away. Because she does love me. And I love her back. Even if her behind IS toxic.