It all started rather innocently. Andrew woke up from his afternoon nap with a few whimpers and a yelp. Dutiful me, I push Lisa aside from her late lunch of vodka and weed. When I approached my son, there was no sign of gastrointestinal distress. No rumblings. No gas. I carefully peeled Andrew's diaper off and placed a small wash cloth...err...I mean I placed an adult sized bath towel (...sorry Andrew...) over his slinky and super balls. This quietness was just the calm before the storm...the poo-fect storm.
I raised Andrew's legs up to give him a quick cleaning. As I grazed his baby butt hole with a baby wipe, a waft of gas leaked out followed by a generous heaping of poop. Thankfully, Lisa was breastfeeding Emma so there was nobody to take a picture. Although there is no longer any physical evidence of this incident, sometimes the only proof you need is a wife who will mercilessly never let go of a story because of all the times a certain someone decided to take a picture instead of lending a helping hand.
And with that...a few pictures.
"Which camera am I looking at? A or B?"
"Seriously...stop dressing me in pink. Serious."
"You are right. Your cheeks ARE softer than mine."
"If I look peaceful like this, they'll never know I hid Emma."
"Please lord! Make this tub water warmer!"
Grandpa Ichikawa grafts Emma's head to his left forearm.
"You've been trying to burp me for 10 minutes. Give it a rest!"
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