My kid eating Triscuit minis off the floor should have been the first sign that the night wasn’t going to go as plan. No, wait, Grandma telling me that Potamus only took a 45 minute nap at church daycare and didn’t eat much all day, was the first sign that the night wasn’t going to go as planned.
And then there was him playing in the recycling bin as I desperately tried to rustle up some food for this budding picky eater connoisseur. Desperately steaming broccoli and defrosting blueberries, I shoved a pretzel roll in his grubby little hands and got him to calm down for two seconds to finish the prep process.
Meanwhile, I had started the chicken cooking for our dinner, and got all the pans and noodles out for that prep. His dinner was winding down when I got this awesomely bright idea to try and cut his hair while he was in the high chair. Because this blog isn’t old enough, you all didn’t witness my “I pulled a Britney before Britney” hair cutting experience of 2003, but needless to say, when the whim happens, the trim happens.
Dog clippers in hand, I begin buzzing away on my boy’s hair. He tolerates it for about 4 minutes until he gets a fistful of broccoli/hair casserole and promptly begins freaking out, crying, rubbing his eyes (which just gets hair in them) and generally being unhappy. With my chicken and sauce bubbling and noodles boiling I rush him back to the shower to get him cleaned off.
He had a poopy diaper.
I strip down in 3.4 seconds, run to turn down the boiling-over-pot of noodles, and jump in the shower with poop-bottom-boy who is crawling around the bathroom occupying himself with toys and generally smearing poop nuggets all over. I jump in the shower, get him all scrubbed off, and throw a towel around us while dashing (safely, in wet feet) down the hallway to the kitchen to stir the noodles and chicken. Standing there for a second to catch my breath, Potamus reaches his head down and begins nursing.
And that’s where the story begins, folks.
Stark naked. Baby nursing from my bare breast. Cooking chicken and noodles for dinner.
It was a scene from National Geographic if I ever saw one. Probably why those women keep there boobies bare, saves on laundry and lets you get some spaghetti cooked. Not that they cook spaghetti, but whatever. I manage to dash down the hallway, get him in his jammies, and make it back to finish up the final process of dinner making. Where he then proceeds to nurse from my other boob.
Seriously.
Realizing what a crazy ridiculous situation this was, I almost began laughing. But the noodles were done and I needed to stir it all together. Unlatching boy-wonder before he was fully finished caused a fit of toddler crying rage, despite my trying to distract him with a song and dance number (all still naked, btw). I go to cover the noodle dish with aluminum foil, to keep it warm, since Boof is running late, and the whole roll goes crashing to the floor and spreads out a good 4 feet of foil that I have to crumple roll back up. All with a crying baby.
About the time I would start to cry, I settle him down with an episode of The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and am able to get some underoos on this naked lady, and eat my dinner (probably without chewing, but whatevs).
Boof walks in the door, just as everything calms down and I am clothed, nobody is crying, and even the dog is behaving.
Yeah.
Thanks Universe.
boof & monk-monk 