Knock on wood.

I feel like things have been going so well lately. Charlie is an awesome baby. He is hardly ever cranky, he sleeps well, eats well and smiles when he reaches the "giddy full" state, just like me. Chels is doing well and everything else is going just fine.

I was talking to Chels on Saturday morning about how great Charlie is. I joked that he must like us because he hasn't soaked us yet. He peed all over the pediatrician when he was getting circumcised (he let's face it, if you are a guy you would too) and then pooped on the table as a parting shot. I narrowly escaped one blast at the hospital, but since then it has been fine.

The three of us went shopping on Saturday at the Gateway to get out of the house for a while. While we were out and I was standing awkwardly in Anthropologie (truly, that is the only way I can stand in that store. I feel supremely out of place there.) and I picked up this book:
I read a little bit about knocking on wood. Knocking on wood is apparently a pagan tradition based on the belief that gods live in trees and that by knocking on wood (a tree really) you either enlist the help of the gods to scare off the bad spirits, or the bad spirits think that the gods are going to help you so they bug out. Whatever the reason, I should have knocked on the large table before me whilst gloating about not being soaked.

We had just returned from the synchronized swimming/ward party, and I was snuggling a sleepy Mr. Brown. He started to squirm pretty good and let out some serious gastrointestinal pyrotechnics - fourth of July style. We cheered for him as we usually do. Someone ought to. The poor kid has to work so hard to make it happen. I slowly moved my hand up his back, rubbing the left side (the side where his stomach is) to try and help things move along.

Me: "Oh no."
C: "What?" (worried)
Me: "We've got a blowout."
C: "You're changing it."
Me: "Okay."
C: "Just use a wipe."
Me: (after pulling back the onesie for inspection and seeing it between his shoulder blades) "This is definitely not a one wipe operation, it's bath time."
C: "Seriously?"
Me: "Yep."

See for yourself (this is after I washed it out, by hand).
On the way to the tub, he peed all down Chels' new red silk pajamas. In the tub he got about an inch away from peeing in my mouth before I pointed that thing the other way.

I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. It's official. We're parents.