Surviving babysitting, naps, and Poopapalooza

I’m glad to report that everything went well with the babysitting–from our perspective, anyway. We didn’t feel the least bit nervous, likely due to our complete trust in our friends, D&D.; Mama and I had a great time at the symphony–although neither of us were too taken with the Chopin, we loved the Prokofiev and the Ellington–and came home to a happy baby and good friends.

Our good friends D&D;, seem to have had a good time with 3B, although he was as much of a mystery to them as he often is to us: do you want your bouncy seat? swing? exercise mat? someone to hold you? a clean diaper? some food? They all seem to have gotten on quite well, however, which isn’t surprising since D&D; brought a guitar and serenaded him with a medley of hits like his recent favorite, “Who Let the Dogs Out?”

I know, I know, but lemme explain . . . 3B doesn’t actually like the recorded version of the song itself, but he does like the tagline when we sing it to him–specifically, the “woof, woof, woof, woof” part. Actually, only that part. And for the record, we don’t ever listen to it, but we do sing it to Barky on a somewhat regular basis, and at some point we noticed 3B cracking up at the “woof, woof, woof, woof” part. Either 3B already has lousy taste in music, or he’s already laughing at ours.

Other than driving us to the symphony, however, I appear to have done little this weekend. While Mama has–in addition to caring for 3B–cleaned the entire house–including the bathroom and kitchen, vacuumed everything except the dog, and washed-dried-folded untold loads of laundry, I have

  • taken two long midday naps
  • retrieved the Sunday NYTimes and fallen asleep reading it
  • survived Poopapalooza (final tally: one onesie, one pair pants, one changing table pad cover, one poopy foot, three poopy hands–two of them mine, a handful of burp diapers, untold wipes, and–somehow–only two diapers)
  • discovered dried poop on my hand half an hour later
  • written this blog post

If you ever hear me refer to myself as a “working parent,” slap me.

p.s. To s@bd–we called home at intermission too. You know, just in case they had any questions.

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  • Exactly why we called.

  • A half an hour later? Are you *kidding* me??? (OCD going into overdrive)

    Wow. I’m sending you some Purell.