Have you ever tried to dress an oiled up, fussy baby? It is akin to trying to put pantyhose on a pig. So, we finally got the sunblock on, the swim diapers on, the swimsuit on (and why do baby suits have “jewel” catchers? like I need one more thing to get his legs through…but I digress) , I spent a fruitless 10 minutes looking for his sun hat, which seems to have been kidnapped by the cats. (They may be holding it for catnip ransom.) I give up looking for the hat, strap him into his car seat, attach to the stroller for the walk to the pool…and he poops.
So, we take everything off, clean up and restart the dressing procedure. Except this time, he’s holding his suit…which he promptly throws behind the dresser.
While fishing it out, I found all kinds of artifacts of western civilization, so if anybody asks if you’ve found Jesus, you can tell them he’s probably behind my dresser. It’s now been almost an hour after we started trying to go to the pool which means we’re missing the core “not hot enough to kill you” time of the morning. So, we venture out the door.
The boy doesn’t much care for the waves of heat which are breaking over his stroller. He doesn’t much like it at all. He proceeds to tell me…and most of the county…that this is *NOT* his idea of a good time. I try to convince him that it’ll all be good once we get to the pool. I squeak rubber ducky and shake rattle chains. He’s not buying it. He screams the whole way there. He screams once we get there. We leave. He falls asleep on the walk home.
Ah, but it’s a short walk, and once the stroller stopped moving, he was awake and mad because we’re not at the pool. (Ok, I’m guessing that’s what he was upset about…he kept whacking his floaty as if to say “Woman? Why am I not floating in the pool of girls?”)