Sometimes my wife wants to get out of the house and attend some sort of adult gathering where she can have conversations with people who don’t have baby puke all over them. It’s those times when I get to take care of my daughter. I love taking care of my daughter and I love that Dee gets to go out, have some fun and show off her oversized boobies. That’s a treat for everyone.
Meanwhile, I’m back at home with Scarlett. I get to feed her and put her down for naps and change her diapers and all that stuff that everyone knows you have to do with a baby, but I get to do so much more. I get to sing to her. I don’t just sing her songs that everyone knows, either. I make up songs and sing them to her. Songs with titles like “Scarlett Loves Her Tummy Time” and “Tiny Little One” and “Chill It Out” (which is about love and french fries) and “It Sucks To Be Scarlett” (used when she’s crying about something) and “Scarlett’s Little Name” and “Other Tummy Time Song” (Tummy Time is prime make up songs time). It’s not all singing, either. There is dancing (which usually makes her puke so there’s not too much of that) and the aforementioned Tummy Time and Peek-a-Boo and doggy rides (don’t tell Dee) and every once in a while I get to give her a bath all by myself. Single parent style. No small feat.
Sunday was one of those days. I got to give Scarlett a bath while Dee took her boobies and went off to play with her friends. Everything was going great. Scarlett loves her bath and she was all smiles while I was washing her hair. I felt like a total pro. I transferred her over to her tiny little tub and she smiled and splashed a little while I washed behind her ears and between her toes and between her adorable little fat rolls (no, Scarlett, the tub does not make your butt look too big).
At this point I’m thinking that I’m the front runner for Father of the Year. Then it comes time to take her out of the bath. I realize that there’s no good way to snatch her out of the tub without completely drenching her towel, dripping wet baby everywhere or doing a dangerous one-armed juggle with her and the towel. I ask her which she would prefer and she responds by smiling at me in a way that says, “Daddy, you’re such a rookie.” I say, “Don’t move,” and I lay her adorable hooded towel out on the bed. I dive back into the bathroom to see that she’s still sitting there happy as can be. I snatch her up out of the tub and hold her there for a second so that she can drip off. I then do the arms-straight-out-holding-a-wet-naked-baby-who-might-poop-or-pee-at-any-second sprint into the bedroom and set her down on the towel and quickly wrap her in it. I pull back the hood to see how Scarlett is handling this whole situation. She is laughing. She knows Daddy is doing something wrong and she thinks it’s hilarious. That’s my girl.
I can’t dally, though. This little poop machine could undo this bath at any second. I snatch her up, run into her room and plop her down on the changing table. I whip out a diaper and strap it on as fast as I possibly can. When I finish, I raise my hands in the air and say, “Done! What’s my time?” I look down at Ruthie who is wondering what the hell is going on and she looks back at me all, “What? I can’t work a stopwatch. Also, should I be alarmed?” Crisis averted. Still in the running for Father of the Year and I have a whole new appreciation for single parents. Seriously, when do single parents have time to poop?