I got pooped on this morning.
Our son was wide awake. In the middle of the night, he’s not happy to be awake. But when the morning finally comes, he greets the day with a big smile and the unpredictable arm thrashing that is characteristic of babies his age. My wife was still asleep, resting before her day at the office. So I scooped him up, shuttled him to the nearby changing pad, and checked to see what the morning had in store.
He seems to really like being on the changing pad. I put on soft music, and we make eye contact and both laugh as I unsnap the many buttons on his clothes. And then I delicately peel open the soggy diaper. For that brief, revelatory second, we typically stop our banter. I’m focused, caught up in the examination, and he seems aware that I need to pay attention. But this morning, during that moment–during that fragile, delicate moment–my son pooped.
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