I had two missions in mind for this morning's naptime: deep clean the bathrooms and wash every stitch of baby laundry in the house in preparation for our Thanksgiving trip. I mopped the floors, gave the tub the kind of scrubbin' that leaves sweat at your temples, pretreated a million different stains on a bajillion tiny garments, and got all that laundry washed and in the dryer. And still had time for a shower and a drop-by visit from a friend. I was feeling GOOD about the state of things.
Fast-forward to this afternoon's naptime. I merrily fold those bajillion tiny garments while watching the series finale of Jon and Kate Plus 8 and survey a clean apartment with all in good order and, again, feel GOOD. (Hint: This is foreshadowing.)
Just about then, I hear Andrew wake with a cry. I go in to scoop him up and find--eek!-- the exploded diaper of all exploded diapers. And believe you me, we've seen some around here. Every last thing is horribly filthy...his crib, sheet, blanket, bumper, booties, socks, clothes, everything. I grab him by his (thankfully unaffected) armpits and, at arms' length, carry him straight to the freshly scrubbed tub, where I dump him in the water, clothes and shoes and all. Nastiness is everywhere. I finally get him stripped of everything, drain the tub, refill it, and scour him 'til he shines.
Now, I have a bathroom far dirtier than it was this morning and a big ol' load of baby laundry that needs some serious attention.
But all is not lost in the pursuit of cleanliness. No, Andrew's insides are spic n' span.
There are people who pay good money for that kind of thing.
C'est la vie!