Babies start perfect. Perfect posture. Perfect skin. No tan lines. Invariably, something happens. It’s only a matter of time.
Last week, something happened.
We’re not sure what. It might have been broccoli. Or a virus. Whatever it was, it caused diarrhea. For days. And days. And days.
The diarrhea caused diaper rash. The diaper rash caused panic. The panic caused us to call the pediatrician on the weekend. Again.
“You just have to wait,” the doctor said. “And didn’t I tell you last time never to call me about a rash on the weekend?”
“But this is really bad,” Melissa said.
I grabbed the phone.
“It looks like she’s wearing hamburger meat underwear,” I said.
Melissa grabbed the phone back.
“It will go away when the diarrhea goes away,” the doctor said.
“When will that be?” Melissa asked.
“There’s no way to know. Could be a few days. Could be a month.”
“I could do your job.”
Click.
After each dirty diaper, and there were a lot of them, we shmeared a thick layer of “Butt Paste” all over Juliet. She screamed while we did it, but stopped once we handed her the tube. She carried the tube around like she knew how much she needed it. There’s a pretty good chance she’s holding it right now.
On what turned out to be the last morning of Juliet’s run of the runs, I was airing her out while giving her a bottle. She lay in my lap wearing only her pajama t-shirt, the only thing in her crib that hadn’t been a casualty of the morning explosion. She looked at me and furrowed her little brow. I rubbed her back gently. She drew back from the bottle.
“This is all your fault,” she said.
“I’m so sorry, whatever I did.”
“Uh-oh,” she said.
She really did say uh-oh. She says that, bye-bye and a-choo. It’s beyond cute.
I stopped tickling Juliet’s back and took my hand out from under her shirt. My hand was completely covered in shit. As was Juliet’s back. The only non-casualty of the morning explosion hadn’t been a non-casualty after all. Uh-oh.
Juliet laughed as I held her with my one clean hand and yanked her t-shirt off with my teeth. I got Juliet into the bath only to realize that I couldn’t leave her there while I washed my hands in the sink, and I couldn’t wash my hands in her bath. It didn’t seem right. I lifted her out of the tub, dripping wet, and held her again with my clean hand while I one hand washed the other in the sink.
Juliet peed.
Perfect.
A few days later, Juliet’s diarrhea stopped. That’s about when mine started. I told Melissa.
“There’s no way you could have gotten any in your mouth, right?”
“Uh-oh.”
