Ruthie pooped last night, so Ryan gave her a bath.
I didn’t help this time. No, I, on the other hand, was snuggled into this girl’s couch eating popcorn and watching the 1998 version of Les Miserables. This was part two of a Les Mis battle between us, which started with a passionate
rant sentence on my facebook wall on how Les Mis did not need to be redone. I don’t think either of us were really excited about seeing the other’s preferred version. But we did and I think it’s safe to say, we liked both. A lot. Jesyka, I no longer harbor a grudge against your loving the ’98 better, but mostly because you made me a decaf americano and had chocolate covered bananas on hand.
It’s only taken us several months to finally watch these movies. Between listening to her husband play banjo in his band, discount baby-crud shopping, and reality tv marathons, we’ve had other things to do. And other things to talk about. These Tuesday night dates have led us into other, deeper conversations which were three-fourths serious, one-fourth making fun of Basketball Wives. Hopefully I’ll have an update on one particular discussion in particular.
All this to say that I was sitting on that couch, heart hurting from the dang movie, when I got this text from Ryan:
How’s the movie? Ruthie just pooped all the way down into both feet of her pajamas. Les miserables! Je suis malheureuse.
I smiled and shoved another handful of popcorn in my mouth. Ah, to be the one not sending those texts. It felt glorious, my friends.
So Ryan had to tackle that one alone, but usually I’m there in the midst of bathtime.
Ruth waits patiently for the bath to fill up.
And then Ryan swoops in to play with her bathtub music set.
What do I do, you ask?
I’ve got the glamorous job of cleaning poopy cloth diapers.
Let’s all give a moment of silence to toilet sprayers.
So, yes, when I got that text, you bet I snuggled deeper into the couch.