We had a number of interesting experiences this holiday weekend. So far.
Of primary interest and most potential for laughs (and of course it didn't occur to me to take a picture until we were mid-bath but):
We spent the day at the ILs' place. Romping, running, piling, watching Hed Rogers and Pa-moos the train, the usual. Perp went down for her normal naptime in our normal way: there's na-na. There's stories. There's hugging and kissing and saying night-night to various objects about the house. Then I tromped downstairs to mingle with the baby and MIL.
Two and a half hours later, I heard Perp burbling on the monitor, so I tromped back up the stairs to fetch her. When I opened the door, it was obvious there was a diaper change in the offing but that's not at all uncommon. She's a stealth pooper and prefers bedtime privacy to do her business. Hey, who am I to judge?
And then I saw it.
On her hands. On the sheet. On her face. "Uh!" I grunted to the monitor, hoping MIL could hear me, "We've got a bit of a situation up here." I lifted her out (carefully) and hauled her downstairs, held well away from my body, and presented her to MIL.
"!!!" she yelped. Yes. !!! indeed.
My theory as follows: Perp had an itchy butt and the rest was history. She's got eczema that's spreading like wildfire, and now it's below the waterline, as it were. So it comes as no big surprise that she was rooting around in her diaper, it's just that her timing could have been better. So she reached in to scratch. She came back with a handful of poop. But then the kicker: She shook her hand to rid herself of said poop (MIL noted there were a few piles on the floor). She also tried wiping it off on the sheets. Then I guess she got an itch on her face... etc., etc., etc.
TWO baths. Hair washing (gnashing of teeth! wailing! hysterics!). Cleaning of potty which was also smeared with shit. We, including Husband, were really glad he wasn't there to see it.
In other news, we went to see Wilco on Sunday. Holy crap and Jesus God, they're fantastic. It's been at least three years since we saw them last (in a relatively small, smokey club) and I'm absolutely kicking myself for not seeing them every chance we get. So if YOU get the chance, go. Go! No, stop arguing with me and go.
They're one of those bands where you'll hear the album and think, "Man, they're great. That's amazing stuff they're doing/my they've changed since last album, etc.," and then you see them and think, "Lord, their studio stuff is practially anemic compared to this dynamic, electric, intense live shit. I must find some bootlegs." I'd say seeing them live versus hearing their studio stuff is a lot like seeing Tom Petty live. I haven't, but I have heard from several people I trust that TP&TH is a live band who happens to record albums now and again but their reason d'etre is touring. Wilco is like that, I think, at least for me. They do great studio stuff, to rave reviews, blahblahblah, but they're all about the live show.
And Jeff Tweedy appears to be properly medicated or something because he seemed positively giddy. Last time it kind of hurt to watch him, he was so morose and skinny. So yay, him! Here's to many more.
Go see them. Seriously. Go!
Lastly, but certainly not least ... ly... I got to spend the whole. day. alone. Whole day! Alone! And you all know it's not because I don't love DH and the sprogs (hi, honey!), but seriously, you spend four months without any time alone (and I don't mean upstairs in bed early ... hey, they're home! ... I don't mean not taking a nap when they do, I mean alone. It was more than I ever imagined it could be. And now I feel more relaxed (though another couple days like this would still go a long way), so I feel more happy and patient, which I'm sure makes Husband feel more happy and patient. I guess it's true: if Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.