stripes

Not going to lie. Kind of fond of the stripe-earnin' when it comes to parenting.

Sure, it means I've had Merritt's vomit in my mouth and his poop under my fingernails. It means I've learned the hard way that Apples & Cinnamon Instant Oatmeal 1. does not an oatmeal bath make and 2. fails to go down the drain with grace and ease.

But it also means that when we're at Bob's Red Mill and BOB HIMSELF (a man I've previously had autograph a bag of bran with the words "Stay regular") walks past and I whisper to Merritt, "That's Bob," that Merritt will, for the first time in his life, utter "BOB!" And then say it sixteen more times for emphasis. Making me explode with pride over my son's appreciation of both the man and his sovereignty in the whole grain industry.

And it probably means that at some point he'll yell "HELP!" in the grocery store just to make people think I'm kidnapping him, or he'll effect a gimp walk and drag his leg behind him like I used to do to try to score sympathy points when I thought my momma was being mean, or I'll walk in and his head will be attached to a fan because his hair is wrapped around the motor. All true stories.

But I'm also a fan of watching Erin earn her stripes. And today was no exception.

Merritt got out of the bath and went straight for her while I grabbed his clothes and a diaper. I could hear them cuddling and carrying on and repeating Merritt's current favorite words, "uh-oh," "wow," and "fffffff" (what a dog says) when suddenly Erin started shrieking and frantically calling my name. 

This is what I found:

Innocent enough. Except The Dude had just peed directly onto her ... swimsuit area. While she was on the pot. Vulnerable and exposed.

We are defenseless. But highly decorated. Both with body fluids and stripes.