Wednesday, April 14, 2004

I've developed a theory that babies use their cuteness as a defense mechanism. Think about it -- if your baby looked like something from "Alien," would you be as cheerful about changing its diapers eighteen times a day? But when something is all pink and cute and adorable, it's hard to hold a grudge.
Take this weekend for example, when young Peter and I were having some father/son bonding time. He was freshly changed and fed and happy. I was lying on the couch and he was sitting on my chest doing his latest trick, which is breaking out in the most ingratiating little grins and smiles. I thought to myself, "This is the finest baby of all time," and all was right in the world.
That's when I noticed the viscous green ooze that had suddenly begun to leak forth from the plastic pants and onto my nice t-shirt. Yes, we were having what I deemed a "diaper emergency, defcon-1!"
So Avril helped get the leaky baby off my chest, I stripped off my t-shirt and repressed curses and outrage, and reminded myself that he's too darn cute to put in a sack until he's toilet-trained.
So Peter was changed, cleaned and still fairly cheerful about the whole thing. I had a new t-shirt on and we resumed our position on the couch. He smiled and made funny noises that were vaguely like primitive giggles. All was great in the universe again, me and my beautiful boy.
Upon which he spit up about a cup of white goop onto his outfit, my clean t-shirt, and the rest of the couch.
"... So .... damned ... cute," I muttered through tightly clenched teeth.

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