Ode to the Changing Table.

Jacq asked me (in her “the answer to this question is ‘yes’” voice) if I would bathe the baby while she did some laundry.  The Days Inn bathtub looked easy enough to navigate, and I already knew the answer to the question, so I agreed.

I must not have bathed the baby in a few months.  Last time I was in charge of infant cleaning he was a much less mobile child.  This time he constantly crawled from one end of the tub to the other.  By God’s grace and my right forearm he avoided drowning.

Clean? no.  Done bathing due to risk? Yes.  I grabbed a towel and draped it over him, but couldn’t get it all the way around because he thought the wiggling game sounded fun.  Jacqueline looked up from sorting the laundry and laughed.  She didn’t help.  She just laughed.

A naked, half-dry, squealing baby in one hand and a full bag of diapers in the other, I waddled toward the bed.  I laid him on the ground and frantically tore at the sides of the bag.  The guy in charge of packaging over at the Huggies plant must have never tried to get into one of these puppies while his child scampered naked across the hotel carpet.

By the time I flung diapers all over the room opened the bag, LB was 25 feet away, diving head-first into our open luggage.  All I needed now was for him to pee in our suitcase.  Luckily, I jumped over Jacqueline’s piles of laundry and got to him in time to flop him onto his back and get a diaper at least 3/4 of the way on.  Like a calf-roper on steroids, I felt a surge of relief at having avoided serious injury.

I glanced at Jacqueline who was trying unsuccessfully to hide her amusement.  I collapsed on the couch and (in my “the answer to this question is ‘ok’” voice) said “He’s all yours.”