What am I. . . chopped liver?

For the purpose of this post, I'm not even going to mention his name.

I won't bring up that I was in labor for him exponentially longer than I was for my other 2 children. . .

And that's not even counting the 11 weeks I spent on my back trying to keep the boy on the inside, while he was kicking and fighting to make an early debut. . .

I'm not mentioning the numerous times, because of his hyper-active nursing habits, I was mortified as he exposed me to the world by kicking off the blanket that preserved my modesty (okay. . .maybe not the world, but definitely the neighborhood park go-ers on a number of occasions). . .

I'm not going to spend time suffering over all those times, because of him, I have been stopped in a public place by an older, well-meaning woman who wanted me to "enjoy it while it lasts" or "let him work it out" or "don't let him act that way" while he screamed and kicked and thrashed his little body in the throes of a temper tantrum. . .

I'm not going to talk about how just this very Sunday evening, while dining out with friends, he chose to warn me of his "hiccup" a mere micro-second before "hiccupping" his dinner into my cupped hand. . .and my salad plate. . .and my soup bowl. . .

Instead, I will tell the tale of our last diaper change.

There he was, on the floor--soft, freshly washed bath mat cushioning him as I worked to clean his bottom of the pale peanut buttery, rotting-insides diarrhea smeared from the top of his baby thighs to the small of his little back. Wet wipe after wet wipe, I took care not to aggravate his chaffed rear end, but to thoroughly and gently clean it, all the while inhaling the tiny airborne particles of his nauseating, infectious, rotaviral, super poop.

And he says: "Oh, poor Daddy's bathroom. I made it all stinky all over."

Poor Daddy's bathroom, eh? I'll remember that. . .but, of course, I won't ever mention it again. ;-)