Here's why I'll never tell God I'm bored again.

This morning, The Bug and I took Mister Aran to work, then went to Trader Joe's. We came home and he had belly time, back time, side time. He played with many toys. We discussed things. We took a short nap together, at the end of which I had five minutes to prepare my lunch before he woke. Then we hunkered down on the floor again: more belly, more back, more toys.

We read Where The Sidewalk Ends. He ate bananas. I was bored as hell, and it was only two p.m.

He used to give me a little time to do things. He used to stay in one spot for a minute or two. Although I know it's bad, he could be left alone for slivers of time. Lately, he needs constant attention, and at two p.m., I was just sick of baby stuff. God, I'm bored, I prayed. Please give me some stimulation.

God would do well to consider my options, you know? Would it have been so hard to create a new mommy friend out of thin air for me to have coffee with? Or, at least, make the baby nap so I could play a little Zelda?

no.

Instead, God sent shit. I've written here before about shit, but this was the biggest, worst shit ever. It's brown and very stinky now, because of the solids, and The Bug has been doing this thing where he saves it up for several days, sometimes more than a week.

Cleaning him up should've required blueprints, planned attacks by generals in situation rooms, tractors, sedatives (for him), banana liqueur (for me), and those ER scissors they use to cut clothing off people. At the very least, I needed an extra pair of hands, but I had none of these things, so I took off my shirt and did what I could with what I had.

It was all up the back of his long-sleeved Bronco outfit, the one my grandparents bought him. It was on his sides and in the cracks where his thighs meet his belly. I looked him over several times but could not figure out how I was going to get his outfit over his head without smearing poo everywhere. I sort of rolled it up. Then I asked The Bug, "Do you think that you could maybe not touch anything until we're done here?"

He grinned, said, "Ah goo!" and promptly sank his hand into the pile of shit on his side.

I'm pretty sure I caught it before it went into his mouth, but I was juggling clothes and diapers and wipes and feet and I'm not certain of anything.

I plopped him, naked and basically wiped down, onto a receiving blanket in his crib and ran him a bath. Luckily for me, he takes great joy in nakedness. In fact, it's one of the ways to change one of his bad moods: take off the shirt and blow raspberries into every crevice.

He soaked in soapy water and was soon fresh and damp and gave me ten minutes to pre-treat his Bronco shirt in the sink. It was the kind of cleanup that required cleanup afterward. I touched poo, though I tried not to. It feels like you think it would feel. I gagged a lot. I should've just thrown the thing away, but it was his Bronco outfit. (Not the blue one, Ma, don't worry.)

It's 3:30 p.m. now, and he's asleep in my lap. There is still work to be done. I will have to clean out my sink really well, and do a load of laundry. But I'm not bored anymore.