Barrel O' Monkeys
I'm not going to gross you out here. I've done that too much with past episodes. This is a safe place. Just know that I walked through our front door the other day holding my child and, about three minutes later, she hurled. Repeatedly. She and I were bathed in it, let's say, and I'll leave the imagery at that.
Now, on to the meat 'n potatoes of this post (no, that's not a reference to the copious amounts of puke, or what my daughter ate to cause such an outburst, so quit thinking about those disgusting things). Much like any other given moment in the span of my time as a parent, I didn't know what to do. I stood there and thankfully remembered to lean her forward as the event took place so that she didn't choke, but after the deed was done I became neanderthal Luke (See episode 1) searching my cave for a towel, a washcloth, a stack of napkins, or just a simple clue as to how in the hell I was going to begin to clean this mess up.
I started the cleanup by setting my daughter down and taking her shirt off. It didn't occur to me until after I'd started to do this that hey, she probably doesn't want me to rake a puke covered shirt across her face as I remove it. Probably didn't want any of it to get stuck in her eyebrows either. Hindsight is always 20/20. With my daughter screaming and her shirt gone, I pick her up and tip-toe around the mess. I spot a pack of baby wipes on top of the microwave. I'm saved.
Here's where I lose it.
With my one free hand I work the package open and I pinch the top wipe with my fingernails. I pull, and a wipe comes out. It has a friend. And that one has a friend. And the next one. These friggin' wipes are playing Barrel O' Monkeys with me and I'm looking like a half-ass magician pulling a never-ending string of tissues out of the package while my baby sobs in my other arm. Mind you, I'm still covered in puke at this point.
I then do what most any man would do. I get mad. I pull faster, and wipe after wipe is jerked from the bag until finally they spill over the side of the microwave and a few drift to the floor. When the chain is broken, I snap the string of remaining wipes like a bullwhip and I'm left with one. The others scatter into the air and come to rest uselessly at my feet. I wipe Abby's nose, mouth, and eyebrows. I carry her to our bedroom where I lay her down to change her. It is only then that I remembered my shirt and jacket had been, shall we say, severely soiled. I may or may not have dripped said soilage down the hall as I hurried to get Abby cleaned up. Luckily my wife stepped out of the bathroom as I changed the baby, and Nikki wasn't nearly as helpless. Between the two of us we eventually got the mess cleaned up.
We've put men on the moon. We put robots on Mars, and others into orbit around the moons of Jupiter and Saturn and God knows where else. We've sent two satellites on an interstellar flight that began in the 70's and they are still sending data today. We can split an atom. We've sent men into ocean depths several miles deep. Untold thousands of obstacles were overcome in order to carry out these missions. Surely somewhere along the way someone had to figure out how two damp materials could be pulled across one another without clinging to themselves and dragging all the others along for the ride. Is there anyone in any scientific field that knows how to design a package of baby wipes that doesn't make you look like the world's saddest magician when trying to rip one from the package?
Moral of the Story: When your baby wipes refuse to let go, it's you who must let go.
Of your rage.