When I changed Charlie’s last diaper of the morning before handing him over to his granddad, it was time to change the liner in the Munchkin diaper pail. I love this pail because it keeps the stink out when it’s in use, and when it’s time to change the liner, you just snap the plastic top closed and take it out, without ever having to touch anything potentially offensive. Extra good, because Charlie’s last diapers were especially offensive.
I snapped the blue plastic top and unlatched the side of the pail to get the full bag of soiled diapers out. I lifted it up, and every diaper and poopy wipe from this especially offensive week landed directly on top of my bare left foot.
We’ve had almost a year of wild success with this product, but this morning it would seem that I stumbled upon a faulty liner. The seam had either ripped straight down or had never been sealed to begin with. I didn’t stay to examine the evidence; I moved quickly to clean it all up and to disinfect my foot, the pail, and the hardwood floor. Fortunately, it missed the rug in the nursery, otherwise it would have to be destroyed in a cleansing fire, and I don’t have the fun-money to go around buying new rugs right now. So in that sense, this was a morning marked by victory. My foot and the hardwood and the plastic pail can all be disinfected pretty thoroughly with proper effort. A rug, maybe not.
The rest of my morning was a standard level of frantic. I arrived at the Metro platform just as the last reasonably scheduled train left the station. If you’re not familiar with DC’s rail transit, we have three distinct modes: Rush Hour, Technically Running a Full Schedule But You Don’t Have Anywhere Important to Be So You Can Fuck Right Off, and Closed. Rush schedule is great. The trains are packed, but they run every few minutes, so you get where you’re going. Rush ends at 9:30, at which point the platforms are still packed, but the trains only come every 12 minutes. If you don’t catch that last Rush train, you cross over from entering your office slightly frazzled but close enough to on time for reasonable adults, into “Where’s Kate? Did she take today off? I hope she wasn’t struck by a Rush train.” So then you’ve got to send the text, confessing to your delay, and bringing your poor planning and poop-based incident to light.
I still haven’t figured out an efficient morning routine, wherein I get Charlie settled and get myself looking and feeling like a high-functioning professional before I leave the house with plenty of time to spare in case of a poopsplosion. I have an almost 1-year-old. I should just count on there being a poop-based emergency and schedule for it. Then if I get to work early, I can go out and get that breakfast I always forget to eat. Except that I will have scheduled a healthy, balanced meal for myself, and I’ll arrive already full of spinach omelet and chia seed smoothie.
I’ll be perfect soon, I can feel it. Then I’m going to have all this dialed in. You know where I’m editing this post from? The stationary bike at the gym during my lunch break, because I’m a master of productivity and will be every second of my life from this moment on. Here’s proof:
I won’t even have anything to write about anymore, because everything in my life will run so smoothly that nothing will be noteworthy.
I’ll have to transition this into a baking and home organization blog, so that I can share all my domestic and professional tips and tricks with the less fortunate. Tomorrow, I plan to blog about making something healthy and delicious with a French name in my newly painted kitchen. Looking forward to it.