Can't a guy get a little privacy over here?

For all things concerning Jesus or God, I will be using the term Tebow.  He’s the revised, updated Jesus for the new millennium.  Either love him or hate him, He’s awesome.  And as a University of Florida alum, I definitely love him (in a manly sort of way, of course).

It’s dinner time.  Steph and I were having pizza.  We were soon interrupted by the telltale poop signs on the Worm:  concerned face, grunt, relieved smile, concerned face, grunt, relieved smile.  Who’s on diaper duty?

Since Steph was done eating first, she took Gavin to the back room for his diaper change.  (For the record, I chew every bite 25 times, so I’m now the slowest eater you know.)   Thinking that I could continue enjoying my pizza,  the mastication continued.  Then I hear Steph calling me from the back.  “Dylan, come here!”  So, I run to see what was up.

Gavin’s entire back was covered in poop.  Nice.  Thank Tebow I didn’t have to clean it up.

With my quick thinking, I told Steph to use the already soiled onesie to wipe off Gavin’s back.  She complied and I went back to the kitchen to finish my meal.

Not two minutes later…”Hon, can you take the dirty onesie out to the garage and rinse it in the sink before we put it in the laundry?”

(I don’t so much mind breastfed baby poop.  No smell, simple to clean, easy on the eyes.  But solid food baby poop is disgusting.  I mean, it’s chunky, stinky, and…need I go on?  Yeah, disgusting.)

Boy, I'm pooped!

So, diaper duty for Steph turns into something worse for me.  I lightly pinch the cleanest part of the onesie and haul it to the garage.  As I walk to the utility sink, I see a spider dangling right overhead.  (Since night-time and darkness makes every spider look poisonous, it was a brown widow.)  My first reaction was to smush the spider before it disappeared.  Like the idiot I am, I grab the closest thing to me, (well, I was already grabbing it) the onesie.  In a flailing motion, with one part of my brain anxious to kill the spider, and the other part of my brain trying to avoid touching poop, I swiped at the lethal spider.  And missed.

The spider, laughing at my coordination, glances the oncoming blow and is nowhere in sight (and probably not dead.  You’re welcome, PETA.) Needing proof of death, I figure it must be in the onesie biding its time, planning an escape.

So, cursing softly to myself, I know that I must find that spider, dead or alive.  I reach into the onesie.  Nothing.  With baby poop all over my hands and spider never found, I lost my appetite.  I go back into the house and feed the rest of my pizza to the dogs.