I read this morning that the CDC has found a rocket fuel chemical in several brands of American made infant formula. Compounded with the chemical already found in many municipal water supplies, these amounts might have a negative affect on children.
I have irrefutable proof this is true.
Or I will, until I get everything cleaned up.
I'm standing there, cooing at two babies–four month old boy, and seven month old girl–thinking this isn't all that hard. Maybe I should have had twins. Got it over with in three pregnancies instead of six, you know? They take turns eating, being held, getting changed, and the rest of the time you can sing and read and talk to them at the same time and they don't really care–in fact, they view each other with fascination. They turn their heads and talk; wave vaguely at each other and try to catch each other's spit bubbles. It has to be good for them, right?
Well, Bubbaloo begins to fuss. So I pick him up and he lets go this roaring explosion somewhere in the nether regions. I know what happens if you wait on changing this kid, and it's getting hard to breathe, so I get out the diapers, wipes, etc.
It isn't until I completely remove the diaper that the deception registers. Explosion. Singular. These things never happen singularly. I've been duped! He draws his knees up to his chest and lets loose a greenish volley the consistency of tapioca pudding. Green, watery, chunky tapioca that hits me square in the chest with so much velocity I am forced to step back. Not far enough for comfort, because I'm still holding his heels, but far enough to evade the next volley which lands ten feet away.
You think I'm exaggerating.
Oh, that I were.
The rest of the fusillade tapers off gradually. I attempt, twice, to intercept with the Huggies, to no avail. He can read my mind. He's always one burst ahead of me; one twist of the hips away. Sweet Little Miss thinks my antics are hysterical. They're in cahoots, these two.
While I stripped myself, (thank you, God, for making my daughter larger than me, and her laundry pile closer) and disinfected every surface within a ten-to-twelve foot radius, they were quite indignant that the universe–or at least that goofy lady with the big face and the warm bottles–had ceased to center exclusively around them.
But you should see him now, sucking an invisible pacifier in his sleep, with a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth; I didn't know rocket fuel could feel so good, he's thinking.