Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Thirteen stairs

So, the evening started out well. Fintan and Coen were both happy. Fintan was eating his dinner (grilled fish, crackers, and sliced tomatoes) and Coen was watching him and not crying. So I felt industrious all of the sudden and decided to make Irish brown bread for Pat. It's a "quick" bread so you just have to mix it up and bake it for 50 minutes. No kneading. No problem. I could whip it up in 10 minutes and then put it in to bake just before taking the boys up to have their bath--which I could surely do in 50 minutes.

The bread came together fairly quickly--except that I didn't have enough buttermilk. The ingredients stated 1 3/4 cup so I thought I had plenty, but I hadn't read the recipe carefully enough and it said to continue adding buttermilk until it was the consistency of thick brownie batter that you would then pour into a loaf pan. Mine was the consistency of chunky peanut butter. Great. But the recipe also said that you could limit the amount of buttermilk and make a "free form" loaf. Perfect! So I free-formed it and put it in the oven. As I was setting the timer I realized that with less buttermilk the bread would probably need less time to cook so I set the timer for 35 minutes. The boys would just have to have a quick bath.

As soon as something needs to be done quickly everything slows down. I kept forgetting things (like, um, jammies and diapers....towels) but eventually everything was ready. I put Fintan in the tub first and then undressed Coen. I picked up that cute little nekkid boy and gave him a big ol' kiss on his round cheek. He's so irresistable! Then as I lifted him a bit higher to transfer him into his little tub inside the big tub, I heard "tttthhhhhbt" coming from the general direction of his bottom....and a warm sensation spread slowly across my thighs.

Breastmilk poo. Ew. And then some more....and then some more...and then just a little bit more.

Okay. I remained calm. I couldn't leave the room because Fintan was already in the tub, and we were dripping poo as well. But that's okay, I had wipes, everything was okay. I grabbed one wipe after another and cleaned my baby's tiny bottom and his legs, and his feet, and his back and his...just kidding, that's all. Then I put him into his little bathtub. Then I got up to survey the personal damage. It was bad. I stripped off my jeans and wrapped them up in the bath mat that had taken its fair share of the of the mess and shoved them both in the washer (which is within arm's reach of the bathtub). I cleaned my legs up with baby wipes and then, of course, I bathed the boys in my skivvies because I couldn't leave the room to get fresh pants. Fine.

By this point I'd forgotten about the bread in the oven....but it hadn't forgotten about me. The boys had both been thoroughly cleaned, but were still in the tub, when I heard the timer go off. I quickly, but carefully got Coen out of the tub, dried him, diapered him, jammied him, and moved him aside to start on Fintan. Every 10 seconds the timer went off. I pictured my brown bread shriveling up in the oven and bursting into flames. I g0t Fintan dried and jammied quickly and then scooped up Coen and we started to head downstairs at the achingly slow pace of two-year-old Fintan Patrick.

You might think that knowing my house was lit gloriously from within would give me pause in heading downstairs pantsless on a dark night with curtainless windows. But it didn't. My bread was burning, people! We headed down the stairs. Fintan scooting down on his bottom and Coen and I walking ahead, as usual, in case he took a tumble. Now, the underwear I happened to be wearing was, ahem, (pardon me for saying) a g-string that was held together in back by a small circle of metal. Fintan happens to LOVE little circles of metal (think, coins which he calls "caps"). So the whole way down the stairs I heard:

"What's that on your bottom, Mama?" thump
"What's that on your bottom, Mama?" thump
"What's that on your bottom, Mama? thump

For thirteen stairs he asked me that. And for thirteen stairs I answered:

"They're called panties, sweetie."
"They're called panties, sweetie."
"It's part of my panties, sweetie."

Then I laid Coen down on the rug in the living room and raced to the kitchen with Fintan padding after me in his footies. I stood in front of the picture window and checked the bread. It was brown and poofy and sounded hollow when I thumped it. Perfect. The bread was saved. My PRIDE however may never be.

And what's the deal with all the poo and the underwear-at-the-window events happening at my house? I think we're developing a theme here.

I guess the moral of the story is: Cover your eyes when you turn up my driveway. A call ahead might be prudent. And if you pinch your nose when you walk through the door, I won't be offended. I'll just offer you a clothespin.


starfitch said...

That's priceless. I have two thoughts....

1. I wouldn't worry too much as you do live fairly far out but it's still a funny image.

2. GO YOU for wearing G strings! No wonder you have such a happy, helpful husband. Hahahahah!

Sorry, should have kept that G rated. :-)

Diane Duda said...

This made me smile. So did the comment you left on my blog. :)
Thanks for visiting.


SaRaH said...

You had me at having buttermilk available for baking. Add in the sexy undies? Wowza.

Stephanie said...

What a great story! You are a wonderful writer, I felt like I was there. Love the images of running around in the risky undies!

Madeline Grace Fulton said...

Love it Alina!!! love it love it!

hooray for you for rockin the gstring!!!!!

Alina said...

Jess, the boys are going to be horrified by this post someday no matter what's in the comments. ;)

Diane, thanks for visiting me! Everyone who reads these comments should definitely go take a look at your work.

Sarah, I actually like to DRINK buttermilk in small amounts. Weird huh?

Thanks, Steph and Erin! :) I dunno about "rockin", the g-string but risky? Definitely. ;)

Christine said...

1. When you have a spare moment you feel industrious? What about just sitting down and doing nothing?

2. You have buttermilk on hand?

3. You wear a g-string with a newborn and a toddler?

I feel so inadequate right now.

brooke said...

I ditto all of Christine's comments! :)

I always enjoy your writing, Alina. You definitely have a gift!

Emily said...

I also have to ditto Christine. I think a G-string would get hidden on me underneath a lot of baby flab. It wouldn't be pretty.

This story was hilarious and you wrote it so well. I love the "thumps" you wrote in after Fintan's questions. Too funny.

Oh, and sorry you got pooped on, but as they*t happens.

Henry Parents said...

Bread baking in a thong - you are awesome!!