Installment II of the HEM Saga: Kimpossible turns 28 and gets worse
OK, now I do realize that I’m not in the running for wife or mother of the year, but just hear me out on this one.
Last night when J awoke for his usual, oh you name it, 1, 2, 3, and/or 4 a.m. feeding, his father adopted a new method of consoling him: Yelling from our room into his—“It’s OK boo, Mom’s coming.” This line was made even more poignant by the sigh, roll over, and mumble to himself that thank goodness he can finally get a good night’s sleep since up to now he’s awakened every hour on the hour to go and check on the little guy. Does his work ever end?
At this point, you might be wondering to yourself why I do not simply ask my husband to get up and help out during the night. Well, here’s your answer: I suspect that his method of diapering not only causes but inspires leaks. Not the sweet little tee-tee leaks, but the big ugly shoot-poop-up-your-back-and-out-the-sides kind. The kind akin to a Fourth of July fireworks show. And we all know that leaks cause the double L of motherhood (loads of laundry) and loads of laundry cause the triple L (livid lactating laundress).
And now an aside about diaper changing. I always found it fascinating that the lactation consultants and doctors would ask me to keep a record of how many “wet and dirty diapers” the child had during his first few weeks. I understand the dirty part, but is it really possible to enumerate a babies’ wet diapers? First of all, who in their right mind changes a wet diaper? If the diaper contents are not in a semi-solid but still runny and drippy, and horribly smelly state, then what’s the hurry? Second of all, how does one determine whether the wetness is due to one, two, or three urinations? And third of all, since baby pee is practically odorless, invisible, and tasteless (yes, I know from experience), why bother when there is sleep to be had?
But back to my original invective …
You see, J doesn’t need any help from his dad to have leaky diapers and subsequently lots of laundry. In fact, we just heard last week that the Sierra Club is thinking of naming either a landfill or a water treatment plant after him. Don’t worry, they have offered me asylum in either facility once I officially lose my mind and am in need of a resting place.
Seriously though, in all actuality I have so little to complain about in the husband department as I really do believe that B IS in the running for both husband and father of the year. For my birthday he made me a carrot cake (the top was adorned with a huge votive candle that I suspect was found on the side of the bathtub) and put together a scrapbook of our lives since we met in 1999. It’s complete with pictures, knick-knacks, and captions about how I am the woman of his dreams. I know what you’re thinking: How could she talk smack about this man? Well, maybe now you’ll believe that I really am the HEM Kimpossible! But at least I have good taste in which men I choose to marry (and eat).
And now I’ll let you go so you can start praying for my soul.
Last night when J awoke for his usual, oh you name it, 1, 2, 3, and/or 4 a.m. feeding, his father adopted a new method of consoling him: Yelling from our room into his—“It’s OK boo, Mom’s coming.” This line was made even more poignant by the sigh, roll over, and mumble to himself that thank goodness he can finally get a good night’s sleep since up to now he’s awakened every hour on the hour to go and check on the little guy. Does his work ever end?
At this point, you might be wondering to yourself why I do not simply ask my husband to get up and help out during the night. Well, here’s your answer: I suspect that his method of diapering not only causes but inspires leaks. Not the sweet little tee-tee leaks, but the big ugly shoot-poop-up-your-back-and-out-the-sides kind. The kind akin to a Fourth of July fireworks show. And we all know that leaks cause the double L of motherhood (loads of laundry) and loads of laundry cause the triple L (livid lactating laundress).
And now an aside about diaper changing. I always found it fascinating that the lactation consultants and doctors would ask me to keep a record of how many “wet and dirty diapers” the child had during his first few weeks. I understand the dirty part, but is it really possible to enumerate a babies’ wet diapers? First of all, who in their right mind changes a wet diaper? If the diaper contents are not in a semi-solid but still runny and drippy, and horribly smelly state, then what’s the hurry? Second of all, how does one determine whether the wetness is due to one, two, or three urinations? And third of all, since baby pee is practically odorless, invisible, and tasteless (yes, I know from experience), why bother when there is sleep to be had?
But back to my original invective …
You see, J doesn’t need any help from his dad to have leaky diapers and subsequently lots of laundry. In fact, we just heard last week that the Sierra Club is thinking of naming either a landfill or a water treatment plant after him. Don’t worry, they have offered me asylum in either facility once I officially lose my mind and am in need of a resting place.
Seriously though, in all actuality I have so little to complain about in the husband department as I really do believe that B IS in the running for both husband and father of the year. For my birthday he made me a carrot cake (the top was adorned with a huge votive candle that I suspect was found on the side of the bathtub) and put together a scrapbook of our lives since we met in 1999. It’s complete with pictures, knick-knacks, and captions about how I am the woman of his dreams. I know what you’re thinking: How could she talk smack about this man? Well, maybe now you’ll believe that I really am the HEM Kimpossible! But at least I have good taste in which men I choose to marry (and eat).
And now I’ll let you go so you can start praying for my soul.
posted by Kimpossible @ 3/10/2005 10:12:00 AM
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