Biscuits, Beans and Funs In Betweens: Keeping Up

Poor, neglected little blog. Don't worry-- you're in good company with the dishes, laundry and most other chores around here. The bathtub needs a good cleaning. Why? Because Pipsi pooped in it.

It's been a while since the Beans had a real bath. Normally Hubby or I get into the shower with one and then the other because it's faster and easier than kneeling next to and reaching over the tub, especially because the tub has a door-- you get what I mean. There's also an issue with the hot water. There isn't a lot. We could set the temperature higher and run the risk of burning the little Beans (and the Biscuit for that matter) but with little hands being as quick as they are I'd rather not go that route, so we settle for quick baths when we have them; thus baths have become a treat that the Beans absolutely love.

Pipsi was going first. Normally we plop Parki in with me first only because she has more hair and having her in the tub first gives her a little extra drying-time before bed. But, Pipsi was first the other night because we really try to keep everything even-stevens. I scrubbed the tub clean while Hubby grabbed a quick nap on the sofa (yeah, I really felt that was fair, too) and the Beans watched from their high chairs. We stripped the Beans down to diapers, got all set, and in plopped Pipsi.

Splashsplashsplash! Oh, she was having so much fun! I didn't get what was happening when she turned her back to me and stopped splashing, but then I heard the grunt. Then a plop of a different kind.

Oh, the humanity!!! I called urgently for Hubby (read: screamed), informing him of Pipsi's productive event and he arrived at the bathroom with his howling fantods barely in check.

"What do you need?" He asked me. That was sweet. Hubby has a thing about poop. He doesn't care for it.

In George Orwell's 1984, when Winston Smith finds himself confronted with the rat-mask in Room 101 at the Ministry of Love , he screams, "Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia!", and in that moment Big Brother breaks him, effectively proving to Winston that there's nothing and nobody he would protect before himself when confronted by his greatest fear, or what Orwell refers to as "the worst thing in the world".

If Hubby were ever in Room 101 at the Ministry of Love, he'd be confronted by his own worst thing in the world: a man in a full-body rubber glove standing next to a 55-gallon drum of wet, sticky, steaming poop and wielding big, flat, poop-covered spatulas in both hands, slowly, inexorably advancing toward Hubby. Oh, and there would also be lots of flies like the ones at his apartment in Kensington in the Spring of 2003, the flies issued from the depths of Hell by Beelzebub himself, flies the size of B-17s that left breezes in their wakes, crawling all over the mounds of poop and then buzzing over and landing on Hubby's naked, vulnerable lips and crawling up his nose ( and here I realize I really shouldn't have had that third cup of coffee this morning). I don't think he could handle that. I think he'd probably echo Winston's sentiments on that one.

"Do it to Pie! Do it to Pie! For the love of God, do it to Pie!"

Well, you know, I wouldn't really appreciate it, but I know it wouldn't gross me out as much as it would Hubby. Not just because I've so recently had the opportunity to bathe in poop (more like with poop, actually), but because I've dropped my vendetta against it. Sometimes, to minimize the dramatic effects of something you just have to roll with it. I'm not saying I rolled in poop, but I've definitely learned not to let a little brown get me down. And you can quote me on that.

So, in the spirit of that sentiment, let's move on. Yes, yes we cleaned up all persons involved but I still need to get to the tub. Since that must conclude today's post I'll write tomorrow or some other time about the bug that went through the household, compounding the falling-behind issue last week, and about the funk I'm having the hardest time shaking, and the euphemisms that have had their lasts. Today, I shall leave you with cute photos that have nothing to do with poop...

Pipsi showing off her apple-gumming prowess

Parki, the Apple-Horned Unicorn

Bean Simmons

The No-Hands Grilled Cheese Chomp

The Beans' first moments in their musical activity chairs. They no longer sit in them; rather, they climb and stand on them until they intvitably fall off of them, generally onto blocks or whatever else is around that happens to have rigid corners. They are, after all, my progeny too.