Tonight, you handed Daddy your poop. I realize I should probably back up and explain the entire story, so here goes:
To start with, I was having a pretty terrible day. I woke up with a sore throat that felt like I'd been swallowing large, sharp rocks. Then I realized it was Friday, but the glee was short-lived because I realized I would be going into work both Saturday and Sunday; meaning there was really no weekend escape from work after all.
Then I got home, and I discovered that not only was your doggie being a pain in your daddy's behind, you also had some pain in your behind, in the form of a nasty, festering diaper rash/yeast infection rash. Oh yes, your poor, blistery red tushy was miserable, and so were you.
So after some serious research and some advice from your beloved Mamaw, I sent you and Daddy to the store to pick up some anti-fungal cream, aka Lotrimin or Monistat. Except when you got back, poor Daddy had no anti-fungal anything, and thanks to a well-meaning pharmacist, was thoroughly confused as to what he should do to help you. We ended up fighting, and there was crying, and then I went to Kroger and picked out some cream for your injured butt.
When I got back, Daddy and I made up (poor Daddy; he's really under a ton of stress trying to be a superhero, and I feel bad that he doesn't think he is one), and then we proceeded to let you run around the house in your tunic top and no diaper. Cuz injured tushies need to breathe. When you're older, you'll understand.
So I'm in the kitchen, feeling sorry for myself because I don't feel good, and feeling sorry because you're injured, and Daddy's feelings were hurt. And I thought to myself, "You know, this has been a really poopy day." And that's when I turned to see your Daddy holding something in his hand, a horrified look on his face. And I said, "What's that?" And he said, turning slightly green, "Your daughter handed it to me. It's poop."
That's right. It's as if you heard me thinking, and in your own, cute little way, thought, "Poop? I have poop. Here you go."
And that's when I realized, standing right there in the kitchen with the poop, that there's nothing quite as bad as being handed poop. And if that's the worst thing you're dealing with, then maybe, just maybe, everything isn't that poopy after all.
Thanks for putting that in perspective for me, Chuck. I love you.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Posted by Stephanie at 10:01 PM