5 years of homeownership, and for only the first 2 months did our old doorbell work. 1 new transformer, new chime, and doorbell nipple later… DING DONG, BABY! DIIING DOONNNG!

Later this week I’ll post a video clip of Reese getting into other mischief, as pre-toddlers are inclined to do.

In fact, prior to the evening past, I could count on one hand the number of times that we’ve had some mishap with a poorly aligned diaper, or perhaps a diaper that has “runneth over”.  However, last night may go down in history as the most disastrous fecal-related incident that I have ever known.

Those with delicate constitutions may want to skip the next couple of paragraphs.

I was alone that night as Chris was out for orchestra practice, so it was just me and baby girl.  The night was going pretty well, the girl was in good spirits for the most part. There was no warning of things to come; nothing really could have prepared me for what was going to happen during bath time. I mean, you just don’t read about events like this in all those baby books you get as a first-time parent.

Bath time started out innocently enough: Filling her big plastic tub with warm water, her toys floating aimlessly in the rising flood. It was time to chase down the ankle biter and strip her down for the tub. And strip her down I did! Diaperless, she screeched and panted and scooted down the hallway, back towards the nursery. I chased her, eliciting yet more breathless giggles.

Scooping her up, I walk back down the hallway with a squirmy, kicky, naked baby. I laid her down on the bathmat for only a moment as I turned to pull a towel out of the closet.

That was when I smelled it.

At first, I thought it was just her passing gas. My daughter, farting up a storm in the schooled tradition of a drunk frat boy. But this. This was stronger.

I turned back to pick her back up and…

SHIT. WAS. EVERYWHERE.

I dropped the towel I was holding to snatch her hand, which was literally milliseconds from placing a gob of poo into her pie hole. Poop was all over the bathmat, on the side of the bathtub, on the floor, all over the baby. It was pretty much my single worst nightmare of parenting, and it was there in full, odious technicolor.

Imagine this: You, trying to keep a shit-covered baby from squirming all over the place, “spreading the wealth” as it were, AT THE SAME TIME you are desperately trying to reach for ANYTHING to clean up all of that poop or at the very least CONTAIN IT. On top of all that, you also have to also keep her from PUTTING HER OWN WASTE INTO HER MOUTH.

New parents, let my example be a warning to you: If you are going to bathe your baby, PLEASE remember to keep the diaper fully locked in the upright position. Unless of course you are okay with pressure washing the inside of your bathroom and your baby.

There just isn’t enough bleach in the world to make that bathmat feel clean again.

Right now, we’re more like thirteen and a half months into the writing of this Letter. We have a lot to cover, so I’ll summarize in a nice and tidy list:

What’s AWESOME This Month

1) The relationship you have with my boobs is NOW OFFICIALLY OVER. It’s done. I was afraid I would miss nursing you. Isn’t that crazy? That I would miss being the one person who could instantly smooth over any bad mood AND put you to bed in a comforting way, who would have guessed? So far it’s only been 2 weeks of booblessness, but you don’t really to seem to miss it much at all. (I won’t mention the part where you yanked my shirt down this morning and giggled at my right boob.)

Now I’m going to share something dreadfully adorable with my readership that may embarass you when we bring this up in dinner conversation when you’re sixteen: Do you remember the moments just before I would nurse you? You would giggle. No, really. You did. You would get really excited and giggle in anticipation of boob. It was so odd, but it always made me feel like my heart would burst with happiness that anyone would be so glad to see my boobs.  Now that I don’t nurse you anymore… you have transferred that special giggle to other things. For example, you giggle in anticipation for breakfast in the morning. Specifically, you giggle for bananas. We’re not talking about that Gerber-fied mush in a jar.  We’re talking authentic Chiquita bananas. YOU LOVE THEM. YOU LOVE THEM MORE THAN MY BOOBS.

2) Do you even realize how cute you are when you talk? I mean, I don’t know if you’ve actually said much more than “Bisshhh bissshhh” or  “Bay Bee Buh Buh Bah Buh” but I think we had a “Dah Dee” last night. Oh, yeah, and on occasion I have heard a “Mahmahmahmahmah” out of you too. You seem to understand a lot more than you can say right now, so I’m not concerned. If you take after your Mama in any way, you most likely won’t have a problem with talking.

Really, take it from anyone who knows your Mama.

3) Walking! You’re not doing it yet! But you are TRYING. You love to practice walking. I love to practice with you, although I have to take breaks to wipe tears of laughter from my eyes because when you walk, you have the determined gait of a besotted sailor.

4) Crawling! At high rates of speed AND daring heights! Currently, you have become bored with the pedestrian “flat” landscape and have opted to scale the graduated terrain of the central staircase at the Winthrop Manor. It would be irresponsible of me to suggest that you scale the mount unescorted, so to ease the concern of our dedicated readership I will assure them you never climb them alone.

5) One more thing: You’ve started eating WAY more food than before. I think the uptick in eating is related to your imminent growth spurt and your walking practice.

What’s NOT AWESOME This Month

1) The sheer size and volume of your waste output has increased THREE FOLD. And by THREE FOLD I’m referring to the number of diapers you can soak though in a single night.

2) TEETHING. Oh My Dear Goodness, teething is such a bad time. Between the fever spike, the loose stool, the resulting diaper rash from the poopy diapers and then the pain…damn molars!  The only upshot to the teething is you’ve found a way for us to reuse the endless political propaganda mailers IS BY CHEWING THEM INTO A PULPY MESS. Take THAT John Patrick Carney and your NON STOP JUNK MAIL!

Uhhhm… That’s pretty much it. I really can’t think of anything that was NOT AWESOME this month. I mean, aside from me not getting around to writing this two weeks ago.

What’s AWESOME Right This Very Minute

You sit about 6 feet from me, sitting with your Fisher-Price nursery rhyme radio. You are wiggling back and forth in time to Pop Goes The Weasel, and it is ridiculously sweet. You got moves, girl.  That will come in handy if you’re ever challenged to a street-hop dance off.

Love,

Mama

And here is a picture of baby girl and her daddy. I’m not sure what they are doing, but they sure look busy doing it. Perhaps they are working together on Reese’s own career development plan?

I guess The Pink One couldn’t resist the buttery golden toasted wheat bagel, but that’s no excuse for poor manners.

I want my bagel back bagel back bagel back, gimmee my bagel back bagel back bagel back…

Ronin, with his girlfriends Rooftop Dawn and Blondie.

Reese was just beside herself. I don’t think she’s seen so many doggies in one place at one time. (A big thank you to Scott & Bosco for the awesome photos.)

It’s is usually a well-oiled machine of efficiency. Most of the time.

And then, there are mornings like this. The Child has been freshly diapered, changed into day clothes, and fed a bowl of Cheerios. Into the playpen she goes for the 5 minutes it takes us back our cars out of the garage (Ballet du Commute, if you will) and prepare her bag for day care. Now what do you suppose she could do with 5 minutes? She could:

Throw every toy out of the playpen.

Locate her belly button. Again. And again. While making rasberry-sounds with her lips (a new favorite pastime).

Ah! Yes, the quintessential crowd-pleaser. She could TAKE OFF HER OWN PANTS AND WAVE THEM AT HER STUNNED PARENTS.

That morning The Small One stands before us, pants-less, triumphant, and gleeful. Her fist held high above her head, mocking us with her new flag of cottony pink infant-sized knickers.

Pink. The new color of parental defeat.