An explosive day

I came home a little bit late from work tonight and from the moment I walked into the door, I knew something was weird. Imagine the scene:

On the floor, a small plastic piano on its side, wooden spoons and overturned tupperware containers strewn about.

I hear water running from the master bedroom and squeals of delight. It is an unusual sound, only because bathtime does not usually occur unless bedtime is soon to follow and considering the time of day (6 pm), bedtime is highly unlikely to occur for another two hours. Why the water then? It can't be bath time. Can it?

I put down my bags and drop my keys onto the counter. As I approach the master bedroom, I hear the shower turn off and the curtain pulled aside. It's definitely bath time then. But why so early?

I walk in to the room and notice a dirty diaper on the bed...a mass of crumpled and soiled wipes wadded up next to it. I follow a trail of dirty clothes to the shower. There is a pair of footie pajamas with duckies on them. It's the exact pair that I sent Lauren off to Grandma's in this morning. I pick it up and notice that it, too, is soiled. A few feet on, rumpled up and almost unrecognizable, is the pink and red striped onesie that she wore underneath her jammies. I hear another squeal. I look up and this is what I see; a squeaky clean baby with a not so innocent look on her face:


Apparently, Lauren had the mother of all blowouts under Peter's watch. They were in the middle of band practice when it happened (Peter was playing keyboards on the little plastic piano and Lauren was rocking on percussion with her wooden spoons and tupperware). It was a diaper blowout as never before seen in our household. One so bad that not only did her clothes get dirty, but the bedsheets and the carpet too. It was so bad that it rendered baby wipes useless and the only cleanup solution was to hold her under the steady stream of a warm shower.

What I wouldn't give to have seen him panicked and frantically stripping her down and jumping into the shower with barely enough time to take off his own t-shirt. It must have been hilarious to watch her kicking and squealing joyfully under the shower while daddy, miserable and wet, held her up, trying to avoid stepping into the poop that was going down the drain. Well, it didn't get into her mouth (or his) and that's the best he could hope for in a situation like this.