Smiling Mom

Here’s the scene:

A friend’s son’s first birth­day party. It’s 100 degrees outside. Yes, in April, one hun­dred degrees. We arri­ved just 10 minu­tes before. BC had already befrien­ded a cou­ple girls in their early twen­ties and was asking them to play. eClaire was dres­sed ado­rably in her baby doll red and white flo­wer dress, coming just to her bot­tom with red briefs under­neath. She was stan­ding in the cor­ner of the back­yard, hol­ding onto the fence, sta­ring expres­sion­less at the lady trying to make nice to her.

Could that be eClarie’s ‘poop’ face I see? Couldn’t pos­sibly! eClaire already had a nice, mushy diarrhea just hours before. Damn molars. Na, she’s just being shy.

eClaire is fee­ling more com­for­ta­ble, walks toward the ren­ted cir­cu­lar table and says, “Hi,” to the lady who was pre­viously making nice to her.

Smi­ling Mom: “Ah, that’s nice. She rarely talks with peo­ple other than those she’s most com­for­ta­ble with.”

eClaire to me: “Up, peese” I love the man­ners on my 15 month old. Or maybe she just doesn’t know any dif­fe­rent at this point.

I promptly lift her up to my lap. She’s clingy, and I feed into it. I just love having a daugh­ter who wants to be cudd­led by me.

She sits on my lap, and imme­dia­tely gets down.

I look down ‚at my lap, to my cute new shorts and my inex­pen­sive, yet sty­lish new tank top.

There is a puddle, Puddle of liquidy, chunky diarrhea laying on it.

Diarrhea num­ber two of three for the day just happened.

That little shit.