Poor Lindsay doesn't seem to get bathed nearly enough. We've been giving her a bath in the upstairs bathroom sink when Lauren takes a bath in the tub, however, much of the time that's pretty prime baby sleeptime. And, if you're trying to get through a 3 1/2 year old's bedtime routine, you don't do anything foolish like wake up your 3 week old infant to disrupt it.
But last night, it wasn't just that Lindsay was a bit crusty where formula and milk has settled into rolls of baby neck and creases of baby thigh, she was actually starting to smell sour.
So Alec and I decided around 11 PM last night that we had to bathe that smelly baby. He ran warm water in the sink, and I took off her jammies and brought her into the bathroom. I approached the sink, cradling the back of her head in one hand, her itty bitty baby butt in the other. And then it happened. A horror film-like explosion erupted from that tiny heiny, and my hand was full of seedy, mustard yellow baby poop. And the baby erupted again, spilling poop out of my hand into the sink. Alec hit the drain and began frantically trying to sponge off the baby poop off the porcelain. Just as he finished cleaning the sink, my hand, and Lindsay's rear, yet another explosion. It was the moment he finished cleaning that mess, and began refilling the sink, that a warm flood spilled over my hand. And with that, I began laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face.
"So much for having a clean baby." he said.
About ten minutes later, the bathroom was clean, Lindsay was bathed and smelling like baby soap.