I took Nathan into the doctor for his two-month check-up. I don’t think he had a good time at all. After his weigh-in (12 pounds, 8 ounces – woot woot!), I laid him down on the table to dress him and he started peeing. I’m never prepared for that mini-yellow geyser, so I grabbed the diaper and attempted a pee-block, but instead deflected the flow and it hit him in the eyes. Are you reading this, Child Protective Services? I made my son pee in his eyes. Poor kid. Then I had to hold him down so the nurses could give him his shots. It broke my heart to see him morph into a red-faced grimace and to know that I not only had to restrain him but I gave an eye full of urine.
I can’t shake it off. I would never want to pee in my eyes. The nurses cooed and taped on some roadrunner band-aids, but man, if I peed in my eyes, I would want some tequila. In the mouth.
And now, some chit-chat:
“We have to go. The baby’s getting fussy.”
“Dude, do you always refer to yourself in third-person?”