Loaded for bear

I've never really had much experience with babies. Until about 3 months ago, when I got one of my own, I had always secretly suspected that they weren't really completely human. You know, squirmy little creatures in a human-larval state, one in a hundred suitable for a Hallmark card and the rest bald little beings with not a whole lot to say.

And in large part, I find that I was sort of right--if not bald, they quickly develop big bald patches from sleeping in the same pediatrician-recommended positions. They are pretty squirmy. But what I didn't know is that they're so noisy. Grunting, burping, farting, puking, squirting---sure, a coo here and there, but for the most part the noises that our little cherub makes are slightly short of angelic. I've even seen the dog cock his head, a bit perplexed.

So it should come then as no surprise that this delicate little flower's digestive tract is attention-getting on a normal day, awe-inspiring on occasion. A few weeks after we all arrived home from the hospital, my lovely mother was in town and gamely changing her diaper. Holding two little feet in one head, with Pampers in the other, Mom had that little rear end locked and loaded right on the middle of her chest. One earth-shaking squirt later, and Mom's shirt, pants, even her eyeglasses, were covered in baby mustard. Talk about demanding a lot from a wet-wipe.

Anyway, so I'm sitting in the bathroom about a week later (guess there's really only one place in the bathroom to sit, now isn't there), absent-mindedly studying the ceiling, when I notice a peculiar pattern. I draw closer. I scratch a spot in disbelief. There's no mistaking it--that little baby managed to hit the ceiling...