"Daddy, Isaiah is stinky." Grace updated me on the situation as she poked her head into our bedroom.
"OK. Thanks babe. I'll take care of it."
I continued getting dressed, and while pulling up my black socks, Grace returned.
"I took care of it. Do you wanna know how? I'll show you."
I heard the words, but they really didn't sink in. I rummaged in the closet for my shoes.
Grace trotted off and then came back to tell me more.
"I took care of it with this. See!"
Then I heard the very familiar sound of the pressurized disinfectant spray can phhhshhhing into the air. She loves to spray it after going potty. It does make everything smell better, but she overdoes it.
"I sprayed this in his diaper!"
It all came together. While Dad was stumbling around barely conscious, Grace went ahead with her plan of action. She was happy, Isaiah was still happy, and I was barely conscious.
The best part ... Isaiah didn't need a new diaper.
Isaiah is a handful, though. We have decided this is not because he is a bad boy. Not at all. In fact, it is probably the opposite that makes us so tired. He has to be a part of everything. If we fold clothes, he drags some out of the dirty pile and does his best to fold them over each other.
As I replaced our bathroom sink tonight, with cold water dripping all over my shirt, and my arms wedged into the tightest nooks, he wedged himself under the counter with me and started banging on a pipe. It could have gone either way. I chose to laugh about it, but I was this close to crying.Photo Notes: #1 Isaiah at the library where he has trouble resisting the temptation to take the stage #2 Grace and her new, less painful haircut. She requested it after countless tearful hair brushing sessions
