Most days I like living in my bubble. I am a sentimental, poetical, somewhat naive little wretch most of the time and find that cooing over a sweet-faced little boy generally suits me well. Especially since nobody is around to see it. And then I have days like today where my son pulled a bodily-fluid hat-trick on me at lunchtime, starting with him shitting not only in his nappy, but out the leg holes, up the back and all over his clothes. Charming.
I stripped him off and wiped him down and as I sat him up to wipe the last remnants off his back he threw up all over himself. I sighed and reached for another handful of wipes while talking soothingly to him and saying cutesy things like 'Oh dear, you had an oopsy my little man'. I lay him back down while I reached for a clean nappy and was promptly soaked by a jet of warm urine. 'You little SHIT!' was out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. And the monster just grinned at me while his high-pressure bladder continued to wreak its havoc.
On days like this I'm glad I had a boy. He reminds me that the Sta-Softing, baby powdering, wet-wipe wielding, lameass version of myself that I currently portray is not all that I am. That wicked sense of humour I just saw in his eyes, that comes straight from yours truly. So Ezra, enjoy the sweetness while you can my boy, because one of these days it'll be gone and I'll be hiding behind a tree with a loaded water cannon waiting to teach you a thing or two about retribution.