Oh Poo...

“Hi, nice to meet you.” 

Shaking hands with one of the hot shots at work this morning, I suddenly remembered the hunk of poo on my index finger just hours ago. I still don't know what happened, the details are blurry. My son had a surprise waiting for me.  A surprise that was bursting at the seams. Hours upon turning 38 years old, I was screaming like a girl for my wife to come and help me with a very messy situation. Then I looked at my finger. Uh oh. You know that part in Home Alone, when the kid sets the spider on the bad guy’s face? That was my reaction. 

But that's how the day began. The morning was a whirl of tasks all pertaining to the 20lb ball of chub whose ear rattling shriek prevented me from oversleeping on the couch. Yes, the couch, on my birthday. I know, poor, poor, pitiful me… 

I was on the couch because our son was a beast last night. He’s teething, (or growing horns out of his head), and he won the battle of wills once again. We let him in the bed and between mother and baby, Dad became the odd man out. I tried the guest room, but couldn’t get comfortable. Somehow I ended up on the couch. I’m such a drama queen… But I’m not complaining. I can't complain. Our baby is well, and we are healthy. A bit tired but healthy.

Anyway, the important man released my hand and I waited for him to curl his lip or wrinkle his nose. But all was clear. Maybe that Bath and Body Works warm vanilla sugar soap works after all. That or the kerosene. Later, when I look in the mirror to find that I had forgotten to brush my hair, I saw the dribbles of white crust just under my collar. The little dude urped on me when I wasn’t looking. But at least this explains why people were clinging to the walls in passing and giving me that polite, but please don't kill me smile in the cafeteria.  And it explains why I have this nagging compulsion to wash my hands, again...