Six weeks post partum.

So, I had my lovely follow-up checkup yesterday.  I love my doctor – she’s awesome in different ways.  And I love that she remembered me (when you’re a patient in a 10 doc practice. . . you tend to accept not being remembered) because we played trivial pursuit after I got my epidural.  She also remembered my personality and knew right away she could let the clinical stuff go to the wayside.

She stood there in shock that I’ve been staying home with the kids and have maintained a decent level of sanity.  She asked about my worst day.

It was a Wednesday.  Max went back to work that Monday.  Lady was still eating every 2 hours, Giggles was still in diapers 90% of the time, and Goo . . . Goo is the most consistent kid.  Goo was just being his typical, curious Goo-self that day.

That was the day that I had meltdown of Chernobyl proportions.  I hope I can describe this terror well enough for your to wrap your head around how unbelievable this scene was:

I was changing Lady.  Giggles was waiting in line, diaper-less.  Goo was just hanging out, per the usual.

Lady just had a blowout (non-parents: that means she had a lady-like POOSPLOSION all up her back.  This is when you realize that you need to go up a diaper size.) so I was taking a while to wipe every little bit of mustard-yellow on her back, bum, and legs.  I had the bottle of rubbing alcohol open waiting to dip the q-tip and clean her belly-button-stump.  All of a sudden, two chubby little hands reach up and dump the bottle of rubbing alcohol – everywhere.  Goo was in the splash zone, as are my wood floors and finished furniture.  At the same time, Giggles is, well, giggling.  After yelping, I look up at Giggles and he had done the dirty deed on the floor.  He is giggling because he is playing Picasso and making poo-art on the floor.

Lady grunts.  Lets out another lady-like-poosplosion.

At that point, what do you do first? Who do you take care of?

I honest-to-goodness don’t remember what I did next.  I know the situation was taken care of fairly quickly, because the next thing I remember is bawling in the bathroom with the door closed, holding a bag of garbage that contained the cleanup from the “situation”.

To make matters worse, by the end of the day, I had changed a total of 16 poopy diapers.  Yes, just poopy.  I kept a record of it, because, really, I need to remember this day so that I can always tell myself, “This could be much worse…” or so that I can boast about it on the internet.

Did I mention recently that diapers run my life?