Country classics, jazz standards
My husband was not blessed with the gift of calm during a storm. He is not the guy you look at and say, “We have a crisis, what is the best plan?” He is the guy to whom you look and say, “Sir, your screaming and running in circles is disturbing our crisis.” This man, who is a wonderful, Godly husband and father, turns into bottled panic when catastrophe erupts. When the world is falling down around your ears, Scott is merely entertainment; someone to laugh at during Armageddon.
The previous owners of our home were smokers, so every time we ran the shower, the bathroom walls would drip nicotine. Scott and I left the house one morning, shut all the doors, and when we came home, we realized the hot water tap in the bathroom had sprung a leak; it was 94° and 100% humidity. The bathroom had begun raining - nicotine. Scott watched in amazement as I went to work; I put an umbrella over Sloan on the potty, stood on the bath tub and mopped the ceiling.
The clean-up effort from Hurricane “Kool” was nothing compared to the poopy diaper I asked Scott to change last week. There is no diaper change that should require me to burn my shower curtain.
Sloan was wearing terry cloth training pants, and I was concentrating on an overdue project on my sewing machine. My little love-bunny had an “accident”, and I asked Scott to change her. Things went badly. Scott pulled her pants down, with no preparation, apparently subsidized with only a wish and a hallucination that the poop would just disappear from Sloan's behind. The shouting started moment's later, “Shauna, you HAVE to help, OH MY GOSH!” I eased open the bathroom door, handed poor unprepared Scott wipes, a diaper , and a plastic bag, and sang the Jim Reeves classic, “Welcome to my world, won't you come on in…”. (Scott doesn't appreciate my sense of humor, or knowledge of appropriate song lyrics.)
Half an hour later, Sloan emerged from the bathroom looking very tired, and collapsed on the couch. Scott oozed out looking like he had taken a part-time-shift at a manure processing plant, and expressed his undying gratitude for the work that I do as a mother, and the promise he would NEVER lose his job, lest he would have to change another diaper like that. So, after I washed his clothes, Sloan's clothes, gave Sloan a bath, got Scott into the shower, scrubbed down the bathroom walls and burned the shower curtain, I felt a little evil (it happens). I walked up to Scott, took his sweet, stubbly face in my hands, and sang Frank Sinatra's “Cheek to Cheek”. I thought it was appropriate, he was once again unimpressed by my ability to pick the perfect song for the situation. I giggled.
Boise City News