So, Tricia wakes up at 1 am for some food. Okie dokie. No big whoop.

As I’m feeding her, I hear noises coming from my baby that sound remarkably like the noises in the toilet scene in “Dumb & Dumber.” I can only hope and pray that the diaper is capable of withstanding this onslaught long enough for me to get her to the changing table.

I make a mad dash — mad enough that I didn’t even put my boob back in my bra. But whew — we get to the changing table without either of us wearing any poop. I go about the business of changing the girl’s diaper. Unfortunately, while the diaper is good, my timing is bad.

Suddenly, my teeny, tiny, beautiful little angel has managed to cover herself and the changing table in poo. So, there I stand trying to get her cleaned up enough to get a new diaper on while I’m also trying to get her to a clean spot on the changing table and get my boob put up without getting any poo on me. In other words, I’m operating under the faulty belief that I have six hands.

Bill wakes up and asks, “Do you need help?” “Well, duh,” is what I think, but what I say is, “Yes.” He gets up and ask what he should do. Just pick a damn task and do it, for God’s sake. Bill wisely does not choose to put my boob up.

Instead, he chooses to stand there and supervise while I continue to clean Tricia up. Less helpful than, say, getting the soiled changing pad off the table, but at least he did not choose to grab at my rack, right?

I have somehow managed to get Tricia’s clothes off without getting poop in her hair. It is a moment of triumph. A victory dance was definitely involved. I head to the bathroom to give Tricia a bath in the sink. Mere baby wipes are not adequate to this situation.

Bill supervises some more. Which is good since getting a towel, diaper and clothes for the baby might have made him tired for work tomorrow. As much as I hate to have him put forth too much effort, I ask him to get me a washcloth. He does so and then returns to supervising.

Tricia is clean, and so I go to get a diaper and some clothes. Mr. I-Have-A-Pea-Sized-Bladder chooses to go into the bathroom and closes the door, thereby cutting off the only light source available. VERY helpful. And man, I’m glad he didn’t go to the trouble of walking the 25 extra feet to the kids’ bathroom or the 15 feet to turn on our light first. I’d hate to have to change him, too.

So, there I stand with a naked and screaming baby, a boob hanging out and no light. I take Tricia over to turn on our overhead light so I can get some clothes and a diaper. I might have exclaimed loudly grumbled something like, “Stupid fucker” while I was doing this, but my memory on that is hazy.

Mission accomplished. I get the clothes and diaper, and I hear the toilet flush. So, I turn off the overhead light and head to our bed to finish the process thinking that the bathroom light will be available momentarily. Right about the same time, Bill exits the bathroom and turns off the light. Clearly, the flickering light from the TV should be enough to get the baby diapered and clothed.

Seeing my obvious displeasure, he asks, “Did you want that light on?” Well, no, Einstein, I’ll just change her in the dark. It’ll be good practice for when I’m blind because you’ve forced me to spork my own eyes out. Okay, what I actually said was, “Does it matter?”

Apparently, something in that question caused Bill’s instinct for self-preservation to go on hiatus because he asks, “Why are you so mad?” To which, I respond, “Dude. Why do you have to be told every step of every thing that needs done? I don’t have an instruction manual, yet I manage.”

Seeing as how his survival instinct has bid adieu for the moment, he says, “Why do you get so mad that I can’t read your mind?” Only judging by his tone, he must have been talking to a retarded howler monkey that I couldn’t see because I know my husband, the love of my life, the father of my children would not ever use that kind of tone with me. And he would especially not do so in the middle of the night after having witnessed the poo episode that just occurred. He is not retarded, missing survival instinct notwithstanding.

At this point, I might have said something along the lines of “Fuck you, you stupid asshole,” and flounced downstairs to finish feeding the baby, but I’m not really sure since I’m very distracted by the fact that my boob is still hanging out.

Related:

• It was the poo that shook the world.
• 04/30 Steph’s Rants
• The beach.
• Busy. Lazy. Busy some more.
• The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.