Father Knows Best

So last week was a bit of a mess.  Oooooobviously.

I spent more time on the phone last week than I would have liked, passing along the rather sparse medical updates my father gave only via email except to those pushy enough, persistent enough, and lucky enough to catch him on the phone and make him talk about what the hell was going on with my mom (me, me and me).  This post is about what happened during just one of my zillions of telephone conversations.

Tuesday night, my sister BJ called for an update while Scott and I were bathing Brynn. Not 3 minutes after I call my sister back, my baby runs down the hallway into the den naked as a jaybird, laughing as though she's just heard the best joke in the world.

She stops.
She smiles slyly.
She looks me in the eye and then slaps her hands onto her thighs just before she squats down to pee on our rug while laughing hysterically.

The next five minutes played out like this: I yelled.  Scott squawked.  Scott ran.  Brynn ran. Brynn escaped. Scott triumphed. Diaper deployed. Scott puttered. Brynn escaped.  Brynn ran.  Brynn grabbed. Diaper cream smeared. Brynn laughed. Hands covered. Wall covered. Stuffed bear covered.  I yelled.  Scott squawked.  Scott ran.  Brynn ran. Scott wiped.  Bear washed.  Brynn escaped.  Brynn tookeverypapertoweloffarollandranawaywithittrailingoutbehindher.

Everyone yelled.  Everyone squawked.  BJ scoffed.

I laughed.  I laughed so hard it hurt and I suddenly knew everything was going to be ok.

It was awesome.