joke (noun) – a thing someone says or does that causes amusement, and when there are some things (even small things) that could make you laugh or cry I think I want to try to laugh and see it as the gift or blessing or God-in-the-moment that it really is.

“Hey Eric,” I said one evening after Caleb was in bed. “Question for you.”

He glanced over at me. “What’s up?”

“Well… do you think potty humor is funny? Like, poop jokes?”

He laughed, which I guess answered my question. “Do all boys? At any age?” I press.

“I dunno. Maybe. Why?”

I sigh. “Because I think I’m starting to appreciate them more, as a boy momma. Even this baby boy of ours seems to think poop is hilarious.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me backtrack to one morning last week. I’d been awake the previous night a lot more than I like to think about. Not quite “first-week-home-with-a-newborn” awake, but maybe the closest to that I’ve been in a while. I try to appreciate it, if not exactly enjoy it, because my boy never wants to cuddle except in the middle of the night. But on this particular day, it was still dark out when he woke up for good. I was not nearly

ready for morning yet, though, so I plopped him down in bed next to me with a chew toy— or a teether, I think you call it when it’s for a baby and not a dog— hoping it would keep him occupied while I read a little.

You try doing that when there’s a cold little hand poking and tugging at your ear. It’s kind of impossible.

But when I rolled over with a sigh and he grinned at me—still adorably toothless—I decided that maybe the short night and early morning were okay after all. There’s always coffee, right?

It was that thought that propelled me out of bed and into the kitchen. My exuberant little boy can get anywhere by rolling, then squirming to adjust his direction (crawling is sooooo traditional!), so I left a circle of toys around him to keep him occupied while I got my own breakfast ready. Every so often, I peeked around the
corner at him to see how he was doing, and each time he stopped what he was doing to beam up at me.

I was just sitting down with a mug of steaming coffee and a piece of toast when that boy of mine rolled into reach of the stuffed rabbit we’ve
affectionately dubbed “Wrassel”. The poor bunny got its name from Caleb’s habit of wrestling with it every time he gets his hands on it, and this morning was no different. Those blue eyes of his narrowed, and with a growl (yes, a growl!) he latched onto the ears with both hands and wrapped his legs around that hapless rabbit’s middle. I laughed out loud and took a fateful sip of coffee as they rolled over… and over… and over.

One sip. Three rolls. And then, as Caleb flung the toy away from him with a triumphant crow, I noticed with a sinking heart the orange-ish stain spreading across his grey-and-white striped pajamas.

And it wasn’t confined to his pajamas. It was all over, like he hadn’t been wearing a diaper at all (he was). Front, back, and sides. In a pattern on the carpet that matched those three inauspicious rolls. On Wrassel.

“Ca-leb!” I yelled in dismay. He giggled and slapped his hands to his (stained) belly like it was the biggest joke in the world. Coffee and toast forgotten, I leapt up and snatched his hands away, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

When it comes to stuff like this, I’m learning the “baby first” rule: take care of child, then take care of things. Once I’d gotten my still-giggling boy to the changing table, it took only a brief glance to tell me that this was no wipe-only fix, and that Wrassel and the floor would have to wait a bit longer. Off to the bathtub we went, me carrying him gingerly out in front of me like Rafiki introducing Simba to the rest of the animal kingdom.

But oh, let me tell you, he is adorable in the bath. His round little tummy sticks up out of the water just asking to be kissed, and he curls his toes, pressing the bottoms of his feet together like a tiny little buddha. When I rinse him off, his eyes get huge and he reaches out, trying to grab onto the stream of water and blinking in surprise when it splashes against his fingers instead. Somehow, being bundled into a towel and swept up into my arms hasn’t gotten old yet for either of us, and it’s only after he’s clean and dry and dressed into outfit number two for the day that I get around to the much less fun job of cleaning the floor. 

And, of course, Wrassel. 

It’s not how I expected my morning would go, I think later, when I finally have a chance to finish my breakfast. My toast is more chewy than crunchy at this point, and my coffee is so cold I throw in a couple ice cubes so that at least I can pretend I wanted it that temperature to begin with. But I’m laughing, because Caleb is sitting on my lap, twisting his head to look up at me with those twinkling eyes as if to say, “Wasn’t that funny, momma? What a great joke!”

And I guess I really am a boy momma now, because I hug him tight and say out loud, “It sure was, buddy.”