Teething.
At least according to the nurse lady who visits Fuss every couple of weeks.
She ascribed his recent uptick in fussiness to a conga line of approaching teeth.
Which makes sense, because he's acting exactly like he did a while back when a bunch of teeth were coming in. You think we'd notice that, but parenting the little man often has more in common with trench warfare than traditional visions of childrearing. When navigating stacked catastrophes moment by moment, perspective is a luxury. The nurse swinging by every few weeks to give us the long view has been really helpful.
This morning's disaster crept up under cover of another shocking event- Fuss sleeping in until 8:30. I'm so programmed by his schedule I usually wake up a bit before he does for my early morning bathroom break. This morning I thought I was being really crafty by eschewing a return to the bed and lying down on the couch.
What I expected to be a ten minute nap ended up stretching for several hours- I eventually woke to the sounds of Fuss chortling and cooing while he played with his train table in the bedroom. The clock read a quarter to 9, which is completely unprecedented.
I sat up and, hearing movement, Fuss came a-running, his blankie in tow (he calls it "Boowen-eee", with an almost but not quite silent W). The next 20 minutes or so spooled out like one of those slow motion nightmares where a seemingly tranquil domestic scene unravels beginning with the discovery of one incongruous minor detail. This morning it was finding several damp brown spots on Boowen-ee.
"Is that....." I sniffed suspiciously and received a snoot-full of ordure.
"OH no!"
I sprang from the couch, scooping him up and hoisting him gingerly down the hall to the changing table, which he took about as well as you'd expect.
So another side effect of teething is, ah, less than solid bowel movements. In this case I was confronted with an epic blowout resulting from comprehensive & absolute diaper failure.
With Fuss yowling and lashing out like a cat espying the approach of a soapy washtub I wrestled him out of his now-camo patterened pyjamas, sheepishly useless diaper and waded in with handfuls of disposable wipes.
Triumph, while inevitable, was far from pleasant and called loudly for a shower.
Then it was off to work, down the stairs and out into the still air in my white shirt, unlocking the car while the birds sang counterpoint.
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