The Kid Has Arrived

Nothing quite like getting woken up on a Sunday morning by your husband poking his bed in the bedroom and saying, “Honey, we have a real poop catastrophe in here. I’m gonna need your help. The boy and I are heading into the shower.”

I laid there for another minute, shaking myself out of my dream (I was about to learn how to snowboard!), debating for a split second about maybe just rolling over and going back to sleep. Then I thought about annoyed, nay, livid I’d be if Matt did that to me, so I roused myself.

(Ended up trashing the pjs, undershirt, and Fuzzi Bunz shell, though I did salvage the inserts. I’m not proud of the abandonment of my green ideals for the selfish sake of not throwing up all over the bathroom, but there you have it. Poop disasters and not owning your own washing machine don’t mix in the best of time, let alone when you’re in the early stage of pregnancy when the gag reflex is still running high.)