My mom says that little babies always look guilty. My little guy doesn’t have too much to look guilty about except when his just-changed diaper leaks out on his outfit (user error, I’m sure), and I am on the way upstairs to change him and I hear him beginning to move his plentiful baby bowels (no shortage of the creamy yellow stuff when you’re on breast milk) in a diaper I already know to be ill-placed. So I start to run up the stairs, as best as my untied Converse tennis shoes allow. And I set him on the changing table and whip that cute new white outfit off (don’t want it stained because he happens to look like Max from Where the Wild Things Are in it) and get the overflowing diaper off fast enough to minimize staining. When I am wrapping up the diaper, he starts to move his bowels again, so now his changing table holds him and a big pile o’ pooh. I finally get that all cleaned up enough to wrap him in a Batman towel so that I can carry him off to a most-essential bath to clean up his highly sensitive skin. I lay him on the floor of the bathroom in the towel while running the bath water. A moment later I feel something wet hit my leg. The towel has been turned loose and old faithful is erupting below me (and all over the bathroom). Well there’s a mess that will have to wait until later. The bath water is warm now. I finally get baby boy cleaned, toweled, and in a fresh outfit. While carrying him to one of the strategically-placed baby entertainment zones throughout the house (so that I can set about cleaning up the mess), he turns and spits up all down his front side (and mine).
Nope, babies have no reason to look guilty at all. But I have to go now because he is screeching from under the entertainment zone in the living room, letting me know that his now-empty belly requires feeding. And the cycle begins again.
I sure do love my little guy.