After a day like yesterday, I often find myself wondering who I crossed off in a past life to experience the disasters that I do. I love my son more than anything in the world – he is my angel – but what comes out of that child’s butt is more akin to ancient black magic than anything angelic and holy.
It’s Murphy’s Law of Parenthood – anything that can go wrong, will go wrong and when you’re least prepared. We went grocery shopping last night after dinner. It’s always fun to take Danny along shopping as he loves to grab whatever is within his reach and throw it in the cart, on the floor or even in someone else’s cart. He thinks he’s helping mommy. I was two aisles away from the baby section when I first smelled disaster: it was a fresh, familiar odor that I’ve tackled single-handedly many times over. And of course, we have a poomergency and the diaper bag is a quarter mile away in the backseat of a parked car (thank you, Murphy’s Law!). Ok, no big deal. It’s just a dirty diaper, right? I figured I’d just finish up in the spaghetti aisle, stroll over to the baby section, and snag a bag of diapers and wipes off the shelf. Easy fix.
Within those two or three minutes, the smell magnified. The aisle that was just jammed with shopping carts was now completely vacant. Danny didn’t seem to notice: he was harmonizing a Danny original that echoed throughout the store, while bouncing up and down to the beat of his tune. Bouncy bounce. Bouncy bounce.
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