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Abby, just moments before "the incident."


There are too many stories to tell from the last week.  Abby has profoundly changed everything that was and is our home.  She has changed me, she has changed my wife, she has changed our relationships, our routines, and our love.  And all of it is for the better.

But instead of harping on all of that, I will tell you a funny story today.

Being only a few days old, I knew that Abby likely wouldn’t enjoy being bathed.  I can’t really drop her in particularly hot water, and she has to sit up on a foam holder thing in the unpleasantly cold air, and then I have to scrub her down briskly.  I don’t think that I would enjoy that process any more than she does.

It’s probably my imagination, but I think that Abby stares at me with real resentment when I settle her into her kiddy tub.  Once I start splashing water on her, that resentment turns to white-hot hate.  I do my best to soap her up and rinse her off with a minimum of fuss while Erin tries to placate her with small dance routines, but there doesn’t seem to be much we can do to keep Abby from loathing her nightly ritual.

I can hear you saying that this is all in my head, that I am imagining her anger, that I have fallen into the self-loathing trap of being the parent without milk-producing glands, but I tell you right now that she has proven that this is an unacceptable activity and that she will not tolerate it.

Tucked into her little hooded towel (which is pretty much the cutest thing ever devised by man, and will remain so until someone successfully hybridizes a puppy with a gnome), Abby stared up at her mother just moments after her bath, wrinkled up her face, and pooped the living hell out of everything in range of her tiny little butt.  Being only a few days old, this was still that incredibly sticky, gloppy, tar-like meconium poop that should be studied by the military to make human flypaper and to seal up leaks on submarines.  I tried to rinse it out but she might as well have pooped out asphalt for the success that I had with that.

She hasn’t repeated this maneuver yet, but I think it’s because she has now moved on to breastfeeding poops that don’t carry the same deadly effect as her first few unloadings.  I imagine when she can crawl she will attempt to punch a few holes in her baby tub to slow me down.  I have to remember to hide my tools soon.