(a while ago)
Last night I was delegated the care of my 20 month old nephew. Usually when he stays with us, my mom watches him and my duties consist solely of pampering and playing with him. Last night, however, my mom had a terrible headache. Having studied and napped earlier in the day, I reassured her that I’d get Dules to sleep with no trouble at all and urged her to retire for the night. Refreshed and in good spirits, I felt confident in my ability to prepare him for bedtime. Being a doting aunty to four nephews after all constituted me a pro at childcare. Never mind the fact that I hadn’t changed a diaper in well over two years - really, how difficult could it be.
Unbeknownst to me, I wasn’t the only one refreshed from a daytime nap. Baby wanted to play! Twenty minutes later, the family room resembled the aftermath of only a slightly less devastating version of Hurricane Katrina. Fire engines and toy trucks lay scattered across the carpet; GI Joes thrown across the room dangled haphazardly on the edge of the entertainment center; a bewildering maze of alphabet blocks, leapfrog toys, coloring books and crayons had amassed on every visible surface. Every few minutes, a delighted ear-piercing shriek penetrated the background din of a God-awful purple dinosaur singing and dancing across the television screen.
Surveying the chaos surrounding me, I desperately searched for a diversion and suddenly, inspiration struck: dinnertime! I gathered the recalcitrant baby in my arms and half-skipped half-hopped through the minefield that had once been our family room, all the while tantalizing him with promises of his favorite foods - baked chicken and apples. God must have taken pity on me; my fervent prayers for avoiding a tantrum were answered. Dules happily settled into his highchair and proceeded banging his spoon in anticipation of dinner. “No problem, honey (kisses on both cheeks) we can do this!” Never mind that I seemed much more in need of reassurance than the smiling bouncing baby. And with good cause. One-half upturned bowl of chicken nuggets, a half cup of apple juice spilled, and two flung-into-the-air-and-landed-God-knows-where pieces of banana later, I quickly decided dinnertime had rapidly encroached into bath-time. So what if the kitchen resembled a war zone, the highchair needed to be wiped, or that my mom’s spotless hardwood kitchen floor was now sticky with apple juice residue - we’d deal with that later. All of a sudden, my nephew pointed to his diaper and shrieked, “Pupoh, pottttyyyyy!” Uh-oh. Was Dules being potty-trained? Why hadn’t I been informed of this?? Wasn’t it a gazillion times more difficult with boys than girls? I hastily fumbled through the recesses of my dubious memory for any information that would help us through the next 15 minutes as incident-free as possible…and drew a complete blank. I have four nephews, what was wrong with me?? Had it been THAT long since I’d been in this situation? Where were my bhabis’ when I needed them?? I wanted my mom! My resolution re-surfaced – we were in this together, Dules and I, and we would get through this together. Poor Dules. Poor me..
The next 10 minutes leading into bath time were quite eventful. For some reason, one line I recalled from a commercial during my childhood years played repeatedly through my mind: ”Splish splash I was taking a bath…” And to look at the bathroom – no wonder. Water had splashed over the edge and covered the tiled floor. The toothbrush had somehow landed in the toilet (hadn’t the lid been down – how did that happen) which meant we’d need a new toddler-sized toothbrush. Toilet paper had been pulled almost completely off the roll and now lay in a soggy mass. At least the rubber duckie was safe.
When enough time had lapsed (and I had regained some stamina) I plucked my now-sweet-smelling baby nephew out of the tub and bundled him in his neon green terrycloth bath towel. One last trip to the bedroom to get lotioned, powdered, diapered, combed, and changed into pajamas, and we were ready for bed. Correction: I was ready for bed. Dules was happily gabbing away in that mystifying baby gibberish. As much as I usually enjoy attempting to decode my nephews’ baby language, my oomph had been seriously depleted. Suffice it to say I was out of practice and justifiably worn out. Dules on the other hand had a plethora of games in mind to prolong the inevitable. Games like let’s see who Pupoh has added in her phonebook, or let’s see what’s on Pupoh’s iPod. My efforts to placate him with the pacifier were of no avail, and the baby bottle I had been positive was the key to a speedy bedtime process was proving inept. Instead, he’d take it out of his mouth and offer it to me, as if to say: “Here pupoh, you look like you need this more than I do…” Yes, honey, Pupoh damn skippy could use a bottle of something, but baby formula wasn’t going to cut it. Eventually, after a small eternity of back-patting, pacifying with pacifiers, and singing nonsensical lullabies that were making even me drowsy, a miracle occurred – my mischievous, energetic nephew had fallen asleep. As I lay there basking in the almost eerie silence, I gazed at his angelic face so peaceful in sleep – flabbergasted that this innocent, adorable little boy had reduced his competent, self-assured, ready-to-take-on-the-world Pupoh to such a flustered, disorientated, and exhausted state. Despite it all, almost overwhelming feelings of tenderness and love filled my heart. Yes, the house was in utter chaos; yes, my mom would lecture and fuss in the morning; yes, I felt as though I had aged 2 lifetimes in two hours. Yet still, I couldn’t wait to do it all over again – after I’d sufficiently recovered in two more years of course.
