So all this just happened to me, and the events are so Keystone Cop-esque, I found myself needing to record them for posterity.
Fed the Penguin lunch. After the important stuff, she receives a handful of baby puffs and a sippy cup with some apple juice. She has yet to master the sippy cup, but its better than giving her a bottle, as it will inevitably end up spout down between her and the side of her highchair. At least the sippy cups will hold their contents upside down.
Or so they would have you believe…
As she allows me the privilege of feeding myself, I look over and notice her shirt is soaked with juice. “Really?” I say and removed the cup from her now sticky clutches. “You couldn’t get it to drip out, so you spit it out?”
In response, I am berated in the language of her people; the words are unintelligible, but the meaning is clear. She has been wrongly accused.
You have never seen a baby so triumphant as the Penguin watching me attempt to figure out the blasted contraption. I’m pretty sure she smirked at me, but pretended it was just the face she makes while eating puffs.
Fast forward: the sippy cup has been replaced with a tested, non-leaking version. I have finished my lunch. The puffs are gone.
“Alright, let’s go get you cleaned up… you little monster.” I mutter the last part under my breath, knowing that the Penguin will surely make me pay for my insolence if she hears me. As it turns out, Penguin possesses the gift of prophecy.
“Aw man! Gross!” I yell, for when I pick her up from her seat, her diaper is soaked, leaking apple juice like a sieve. (These sippy cups clearly hold more than they claim, storing up extra juice in a separate dimension or some other witchery. The quart I beheld dripping from my baby’s bum was not the half a sippy cup she allegedly drank.) Also, the puffs, or rather the unfortunate ones that were discarded after failing to find the Valhalla of Penguin’s mouth, had met an unfortunate end. Where as normally, I would brush them off onto the floor to be scooped up by Zoe the Destroyer, aka our pug, they were now mush. Soaked in a gallon of juice, their tiny puff souls doomed to suffer in purgatory until I could clean out the highchair.
Once upstairs, I reach for a diaper, intending to change her and wipe her down with a baby wipe, as she still has another meal between now and bed time. My hand finds nothing and I groan. We are out of diapers… except for the ones downstairs.
It turns out, her older sister, Monkey, did not fully drain the bathtub the night before. It still holds two inches of cold, used bathwater.
Searching around and finding no alternative, I leave her on the floor on her tummy, praying that she will miraculous remain in the downward facing dog yoga position she arranged herself upon making contact with the carpet. Running downstairs, I snag a diaper from the diaper bag, because its closer than our main stash, then pop back up.
“You know what? Let’s just give you a bath,” I tell Penguin, who is thankfully still on her tummy. Clutching her around the waist, I tuck her under my arm and go to open the drain. Nothing happens. Eventually, I hear a small trickle.
With a heavy sigh, because of course it’s clogged, I place the Penguin on the bathmat and go to gather up what I’ll need to bather her downstairs. Until I realize I can’t carry it all and her in one trip.
“A bag!” I yell, “My kingdom for a bag!”
Now packed up, I return triumphantly to the bathroom. Penguin is right where she started, entertained by the sight of her Mommy darting to and fro. I pick her up, shoulder the tote, and as I turn… the tub is empty.
At this point, I can only shake my head. I run Penguin a bath while putting back everything I’d packed. The moment that little apple juice treated hiney touches the water, Penguin begins to splash. Not dainty, tiny baby splashes. Great kerplunks whose only purpose is to see if you can get water to drip from the ceiling.
I remove my glasses with a sobering thought: “There’s no way you make it outta this dry, Reese.”
Drying Penguin off after the entire ordeal, I realized there was only one thing to do.
Because trying to get your baby’s hair to stand up like Einstein and uploading baby pictures of her to the internet is as close as you’re ever going to get to revenge.
Now, here I sit. Typing away while a Penguin in need of a nap berates me for doing something not related directly to her. Her hair is dry and falls into place perfectly, curling at the ends and negating my one action of defiance, and all I can think of now is, “I have to get out of this shirt. It smells like apple juice.”
If you enjoyed this glimpse into my Mommyhood, or want to read more about the triumphs and tribulations of being a mother, check out Mommy Diarist, available at Amazon, B&N, and your favorite retailer.