When Kerry and Sarah dropped Kit off last night before pesto-making, Kit was fast asleep. Bad sign for someone about to watch the little guy for the next few hours. Kerry promptly said, "He's fast asleep. Just as (the Handyman) requested." Hmpf. That Handyman.
Well, the next four and one-half minutes were the most fantastic of my life. I pulled the baby from that car seat, nestled him into my shoulder, and sat on the couch to indulge in my current tv-series-of-choice from Netflix.
When those four and one-half minutes were up (because really, who in this world gets a full five minutes of fantastic?), the Handyman came through the door like a bull in a china shop.
This was the result:
I promptly made him grab the camera to document his handiwork.
Shucks. It was good while it lasted. In his defense, the Handyman and Kerry share an office where the Handyman is told on a weekly basis, "Oh go right ahead, he sleeps like a rock." Or something like that. Unfortunately, last night wasn't rock night.
It was cry night.
Never fear, the boy loves to walk. So, we strapped him to my chest and went for quite the walk. To campus, past the Martina McBride concert (boy, there were some characters there!), down to the river, along the trail, and back to my house. I sank into a chair for not more than four and one half seconds when Kit realized this will be an extended stop. Cue: crying.
The rest of the story is rather unimportant save the truly heroic suggestions made by the Handyman. He could probably care less about getting credit for coming up with ingenious ways to make little Kit comfortable and happy, but he had plenty of them.
The Handyman deserves the most credit for responding speedily to my post diaper-change call of, "Honey, I lost the poop!"
Yes, little Kit has little turds. (His Mom and Dad are looking into quantity of water intake.)
After changing one of the cotton diapers, I traveled to the toilet only to find the poop had escaped, somewhere between the dining room table and the bathroom. Yes, between the still brand-new dining room table and the empty-handed me standing before the toilet.
I didn't know whether to hope that it was on the oriental rug or on the polished eating surface I've barely begun to entertain at. The rug would mean the dogs were dangerously close to doing something I rather not mention. And the rug might mean I had stepped on said poop while juggling a baby and a dirty diaper.
The Handyman was already the dining room as I was approaching the table, walking gingerly across the rug. Yes, it was on the table. Thank goodness for small blessings.
The night, luckily, finished more like this:
And there were plenty of smiles for Mom and Dad when they came home early from dinner. Oh yeah, Kit smiled, too.