I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—God proved his sense of humor in how he created our littlest one, Jonah.
I prayed for a calm, peaceful child. I even named him Jonah (Hebrew for ‘dove’, the symbol of peace) because of what it meant. I just knew that a God that would bless me with a third baby so late in life would know that I needed a quiet, peaceful, laid-back child and grant me that accordingly.
Well…you know what they say about assuming things, don’t you?
You already know about his outrageously terrible sleeping habits. But the child is an absolute monkey! Which is probably why he laughs in glee whenever Curious George comes on TV. He senses a real kindred spirit there.
Yesterday, he found a black (thankfully, washable) marker and climbed into the empty hutch cabinet he’s claimed as his own. (We call it “Jonah’s Hideaway.”) He then proceeded to tattoo himself—thankfully, avoiding his face.
Because “washable” black marker leaves semi-permanent green marks over pale human skin. (Kinda like real tattoos as they age, huh?)
He stole the camera and took some more photos of his face. Here is a collage I made of just a few of the dozens of Jonah-self-portraits I found when I uploaded my pics:
He dragged a chair over to the sideboard in the dining room and emptied the entire salt shaker over the the antique Scrabble board game on top of the sideboard, the chair, his feet and the floor.
And ten minutes ago, he walked up and grabbed my arm. And his hand was sticky.
And that is never a good sign.
Except this time, it was a truly terrible sign, because then I smelled it.
Yeah, my young primate had been digging in his diaper. I guess he needed to learn more about those nasty presents he makes for us every day.
And I’m all “Ohmygosh…ohmygosh…ohmygosh—DONNIEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Thankfully, the husband was home, and thankfully, the child loves to wash his hands. Just loves it. If he could choose between Disney World and a sink with stool beside it, he’d go for the sink every time.
So we washed, not just hands, but legs and feet. And of course, my arm. And the floor. And then we changed the diaper, and put little Houdini back in his cloth diapers, whose bulletproof covers do not provide anywhere near the easy access he has in disposables.
(Confession time: we got used to using ‘sposies while on vacation a few weeks ago and slipped back into our Huggies habit. Not anymore! Another huge benefit of cloth diapering!)
You know, neither of the other boys ever played with their poop. Zach couldn’t stand getting his hands dirty–the first time I presented him with finger paints, he writhed and moaned like I was torturing him. Eli was a messy child, and has always loved getting his hands into stuff. But the thought of poo-painting never, ever occurred to him.
So I (smugly, wrongly) thought that we just didn’t make “those” kind of kids, the kind that would actually play in their own poop.
I guess if you have enough kids, you end up getting one of every kind.
Let’s just hope that he doesn’t figure out how to break into his cloth diapers anytime soon. Because what happened today is MORE than enough for me!