Poocasso

This morning when I woke up and headed upstairs, I was slapped across the face by the smell of rancid inky. I immediately tensed up and started to pray that I wasn't going to find Wyatt bathing in his own feces and drawing masterpieces of art with his dung.

I should have prayed harder.

First, I went to get Callie and she started asking for Wyatt who was definitely being much too quiet for that time in the morning. So I grabbed her hand and we walked into Wyatt's room together.

The green fog was thick as hell and I braced myself as I peered into Wyatt's crib. At about the same time, Callie started saying, "SMELL! SMELL! EWWWW!". Dude had one hand down his pants (digging for the goods) and was using his other hand to graffiti all over his pillow with caca.

Tears came to my eyes. Both from the gut-wrenching stink and the feeling of pure defeat. I was going to have to clean this up. I was also trying not to yack since I have such a weak stomach from puking everyday for 29 weeks when I was pregnant with them. AND I definitely don't do poop. I wanted to die.

I threw that little punk in the tub with almost an entire bottle of baby soap. I let him fester in that for a good half hour before I was willing to attack him with a washcloth. So gross. I finally got him cleaned up and then had to go disinfect the hell out of his room. Narsty.

Please believe that I had just written something incredibly sentimental about the kid last night before I went to bed but waited to post it after I had time to check my spelling. I love how they find a quick way to balance out the good with the bad before one side gets too heavy. It happens every time!

I will post the sentimental ode when my nose hairs grow back.