Good Help

I was upstairs, giving Joel his bottle. As he drank, I removed his puffy diaper, reached over to the diaper basket, and grabbed a handful of air.

Of course. All of his diapers were downstairs in the laundry room. I could cart Joel back downstairs as he sucked on his bottle, but I didn't. Oh, no.

This is what older brothers are for.

I bellowed, "Owen," and with a flash of horror, realized that the name of Danny DeVito's character from Throw Momma From the Train was...Owen. I never realized it until that exact moment.

You see, as I yelled Owen's name, I sounded exactly like the spittled, bearded crone that tormented DeVito's character to the point that he (you know) wished to throw her off a train.

Another moment for the baby book.

Owen eventually made his way upstairs and said, "Uhhhh-AHAHHH."

Curse you, I say, CURSE YOU Curious George.

Owen finds it both clever and hilarious to talk like a monkey, with a series of grunts and pointing gestures. It makes me want to drink myself to sleep.

"Owen," I said, "I need you to do me a favor."

"Uh-huh, Uh-huh," Curious Owen responded.

"I need you to go downstairs, and get a diaper for Joel. They're by the washing machines."

"Okay, Mom! That's a plan," replied my son, clearly delighted to be able to help. He then, for no helpful or logical reason whatsoever, turned off the fan, and turned on the lights in the empty bathroom.

I swallowed my annoyance and returned my attention to Joel. He still was sleepily drinking his bottle, and pinching his scrotum in a manner that looked unpleasant.

I waited. And waited. And waited. I heard crashes. Water gurgling. An intense, highly detailed soliloquy coming from the living room about nibbling fish and big sharks wearing shoes. What I was NOT hearing was anything that sounded remotely like diaper retrieval.

My thoughts were murderous. If Joel finished his bottle, and I had to go downstairs, lugging the half naked, milk-drunk baby, it would be ugly. Certainly, if nothing else, my sentence would start something like, "Owen, I SWEAR TO GOD, if you do not have a diaper..."

Luckily, Owen made it upstairs, beaming ear to ear. Yes, the diaper was an expensive, night time diaper. It would do.

And yes, Owen was wearing his pants and underwear backwards, having pulled up his pants, All By Himself.

And yes, when I walked into the bathroom, the entire counter was sticky with soap. As Owen washed his hands, All By Himself, he had managed to dump about half a gallon of soap. All. By. Himself.

I love Owen, and I'm grateful for his efforts. But I'm telling you, you just can't get good help these days.