When we finally finished doing (most of) our church duties today we decided just to stay in our Sunday clothes. We got home from Home Teaching shortly after 3:30. Our Home Teachers were just leaving as we arrived--because we were late--but we caught them just in time and they came in and gave us a lesson and chatted for a while. They left around 4:00 but we had to be back at the church at 7:00 so we braved staying in our Sunday clothes all day.
It isn't that we really have any problem with staying in Sunday clothes, per se. It's just that since Rachel's been born we have a lot of accidents. A lot of accidents. Against our better judgment we stayed dressed up instead of slipping into our pyjamas (also known as "Rachel clothes").
Rachel was having a pretty sad day today. She kept spitting up at church, but not the gentle "that was a wet burp" spit up. No, this spit up was the "hit the person sitting in front of you at church" kind--very projectile, very voluminousness, very chunky, very smelly. It did not look like very much fun to have. We both came home from church rather damp; Rachel especially so. And she was very grumpy (we did drag her around home teaching for 2 hours) so I went and had a nap with her, wearing my Sunday clothes.
Andrew, meanwhile, decided to be the best husband in the whole entire world. He made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and started making the bread that I was supposed to already have made for the primary secretaries in our stake.
By the time I woke up, there was meatloaf sizzling in the oven and poppyseed batter on the counter...and a Sunday shirt hanging on our bedroom doorknob. Andrew was wearing his jacket while going about his business around the house.
"Why are you wearing that?" I asked.
"Sad story," He said simply.
"Are you going to tell me this sad story?"
"The ketchup kind of exploded the bottle all over my shirt."
Indeed it had. Oh, well...ketchup isn't as hard to get out of clothes as other things and he had already blotted it. He has more than one Sunday shirt anyway, so it didn't matter. We continued getting ready for dinner.
Rachel, though, was still sad and she just wanted mommy, so most of my contributions to dinner revolved around cuddling Rachel.
She and I had been in the living room, but Andrew had asked me a question so I picked her up, put her on my hip, and carried her into the kitchen. He asked his question and I answered and then stood in the kitchen to keep him company for a while.
I heard a thick splashing sound and felt a little puddle develop on my foot.
"Rachel must have spat up again," I thought. After all, she was having a spit-uppy day.
I looked down. It wasn't spit up.
(Now, I know I said I would stop writing about gross stuff on this blog since I've started the Mother's Lounge...this is the last time, I swear!)
Baby poop was running down my legs and pooling around my feet!
Rachel started singing. She had suddenly turned into the happiest baby in the whole world. Andrew came and took her off to get a diaper change while I stood in shock, covered in baby poop from my waist to my toes.
See, part of Rachel's "sad day" was that she hadn't had a bowel movement for about 24 hours, which is unusual for her. She's a pretty regular baby.
I was expecting a big blow out when the BM finally occurred, but nothing like this. Typically she grunts a bit and then does a forceful, squishy sound in her diaper giving you a few seconds to move her away from you before she leaks. More often than not I catch her little signs and can get her to the potty on time.
This time there was nothing like that. No grunting, no tensing of the abdomen, no noise...just a puddle on my foot and by then it was everlastingly too late.
"Should have changed into pyjamas," I thought as baby poop continued to drip down my skirt, run down my nylons, and join the growing puddle on the floor. Next week I think I will change, regardless of how many times I have to get back into my Sunday clothes.