cleaning baby fists

that's the perfect metaphor for my day so far.  Basic tasks made impossible by little clenched baby hands.

At the moment I'm enduring a blitz attack by all of the Tooty Butt's bodily functions at once.  Trying to get dressed for the day?  She took one look at my cleavage and thought: "You know what those could use?  A little more vomit."  Both the Tooty Butt and Booger Pile decided they were starving at the same time, so while I peeled mandarin as fast as I could (the most obstinate, membrane-filled mandarin ever grown apparently), the Tooty Butt wailed herself into a frenzy, even after I enlisted her big sister to try rocking her calm.  When I was finally able to get to her, she immediately tried to chow down, only to get interrupted by her own bowel movements.  There's nothing more frustrating than when your desperately hungry infant won't nurse until she lets loose two or three butt rumblers in a row. With that job taken care of, she settled down to feed with a look up at me that said, clear as day, "Nothing personal, Mom, I just had to take a megadump first."

Thanks kid.  Thanks.

And lest I feel that the worst was over, as I lifted her onto a fresh diaper, she gave me a beautiful glowing smile--right before farting with her butt pointed directly at my face.  I'm telling you, infant smiles are NOT reactions to your voice, they aren't because they have gas, and they aren't because babies know all the secrets of the universe until they forget everything when they learn to speak.  Beautiful tiny toothless grins are nothing but survival instinct.  Because if I didn't get those little gems everytime I get puked/pooped/farted on, I think I'd take out everyone around me with the hissy fit I'd eventually have.  I'd be like a nuclear bomb... but not powered by uranium.  Powered by poop.