Did I ever tell you about that one time, at band camp...
Wait, start over.
As Layla's fourth birthday approaches, I'm starting to catch myself being a little nostalgic. Remember the days when she couldn't walk? Everything stayed where I put it, more or less. Remember when she couldn't talk? When she didn't tell me to shut up, or that she didn't care? Ahhh, bliss. Remember the days when the only things you had to deal with were dirty diapers, mixing formula, and waking up in the middle of the night? It was like a vacation!
One thing I definitely remember, maybe not so fondly, was the first time Layla and I were home alone together. My hetero-lifemate was off doing something. Wrestling trolls, ripping trees up by their roots, slaying dragons, whatever. I was sitting on the couch, rocking Layla, when I felt a distinctly warm sensation somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. "Hmmmm" says I, "something seems amiss." Damn fucking right something was amiss. She had shit all over me. I don't know how a baby that only weighed a little over 7 pounds could hold that much shit. Or how the force of that much shit didn't manage to blow her diaper completely off. Sort of like this:
This was my face when I discovered that I had been shat upon:
I leaped off the couch, in a single bound noless, and rushed my almost newborn infant to the nearest bathroom. All the while screaming, and flailing (in a completely safe way, of course), and uttering profanities. I turned the water on at the sink, testing the temperature on my wrist of course (what do you take me for, a bad mother?...Don't answer that.), ripped the shitty diaper off my baby's ass (in a completely gentle...you get the idea) and began bathing her in the sink. She did not like this. Not even a little. She screamed her tiny head off. We both stood there (ok, so SHE didn't stand) crying and wailing and wondering why God hated us so much. Ok, so maybe only I was wondering that. After this fun adventure, I took her back to the couch, dried her and diapered her again.
When hetero-lifemate came home, he had had a perfectly wonderful, magical day. And I hated him with every fiber of my stumpy (I'm 5'2") being for it.
Hetero-lifemate: "How was your day, baby?"
Me: "Fuck off and die."
Him: "Alright then. What's for dinner?"
This is when I jumped off the couch, laid Layla down, and beat him to death. Ok, not really.
And that, my faithful readers, is the Tale of the First Time I was Home Alone with Layla. (TM)
some parts of this story may have been embellished a tiny bit, or a complete lie.