This is one of those Dad experiences, you really really don’t want.
I was sitting at my desk before dinner, trying to set up my new cell phone. (How bizarre is it that changing cell phones takes more than 5 minutes? And before you ask: No, it’s not an iPhone. I got a Pearl. Dangit.)
Anyway, I was sitting there, engrossed in my task and Isabella came up with her usual insistent grunt. Usually it means she wants whatever I happen to have in my hand and if she thought she was getting her grubby little fingers on my brand new phone, she had another thing coming. Sure, she can slam around my three-year-old Motorola that I was replacing, but not this shiny new testament to Canadian ingenuity.
So I ignored her. Wrong thing to do. Bad dad. Yeah. I paid for it.
She came back with her insistent whine and grunt again, but this time she was pushing something at me.
First, there’s something you need to know about Isabella. She’s a good kid with a developing conscience. When she’s doing something she knows she shouldn’t be doing, she’ll say “No, no, no” even as she does it. Sure, I’d rather she not do it, but it’s a learning curve. Likewise, once she’s down whatever she’s not supposed to be doing—usually handling something we’ve told her not to—she’ll bring it right over to us. It’s like she’s saying, “Okay, you’ve got me. Now turn off that insistent little voice on my shoulder.”
So she was at my chair again, whining and grunting, and pushing something at me. Something white. Something plastic and squishy. Something very, very smelly. “Oh Good Lord! She took off her diaper… And it’s full! Eeeeewwww!”
Yes, the poor kid had removed her full diaper and brought it to me. So I yelled out to Melanie, scooped up the diaper—never letting go of my new cell phone, of course; I still wasn’t sure it wasn’t an elaborate ruse to distract me while she grabbed my new toy, er, phone—and ran it into the nursery. I left Melanie to scoop up the now poopy-bottomed child. Unfortunately, the mess was all over her legs and all over her.
Meanwhile, I was on poop patrol, carefully scanning the dining room and living room for Bella droppings. Lucky me, I found a few. The hard way. By poking with my finger.
Yes, yes, I had it coming. How dare I ignore the insistent child who obviously knew what she needed and made sure I took care of it. But I ask you: She’d accomplished half the job on her own. Is it too much to ask that she finish it?
