Ack. It's just crazy-ass busy around here lately. And as I'm spending almost every waking hour writing, this has been bumped down the list. We're now deep in the TBall season, a two hour, twice-a-week, dandelion picking, gigantor helmet-wearing, mercy rule inning-ending, cheering for the kids from both teams extravaganza (and I love it). Tonight, with Traci out of town, it also gave me a chance to play Flash, the fastest dad on earth.
Kylen, right around the bottom of the second inning, just as I'm sure someone in the field was dropping a ball, decided to drop a load in his pants. Now, he's been housebroken for a couple months, so this was a very unpleasant (and large) surprise. I got him to the port-a-john and semi-cleaned him up, only to find myself...well, I'll skip it. Told Riley I'd be right back, threw Kylen in the car, dashed home, threw him on the potty, in the shower, into new clothes, back into the car and made it back an inning later.
Whew.
After we were home I gave them some food, and he began to recount the day, I thought.
"Daddy? I pooped."
"I know you did buddy."
"I pooped."
"Yes, I know you [sniff]...did you poop again?"
Crap.
We seem to backslide when Traci travels. She's home in two days. Until tonight I was sailing through...now I must arm myself again with the diaper bag, a most unwelcome friend.
[heart restarts] As I typed that, Kylen let out a demonic scream from upstairs. I ran up to find him standing by his bed, trying to sort his blankets. Scared the living tar out of me. He's asleep again.
Two days.
