Since I’m surrendering fully to the unapologetic glory of TMI, I offer you today this whopper.
The other day, I was holed up in my office (read: whatever room the children are not in) working on deadline, with my grandmother “in charge” of the kids. Since our house is the size of a shoebox, with walls about as thick, I could hear every syllable of the detailed monologue my grandmother was delivering about my daughter’s dirty diaper.
“Jesu mio! Seconda, are you dirty? Uffa! You dirty! You very dirty! Che puzzo! Lemme change you diaper.”
I heard her rip off the diaper tabs, followed by a gasp.
“Dio mio! What a LOAD! Oh my God! Don’t move, baby. I gotta get da wipes. OK, don’t you move. Don’t move.”
Oh, come on, Nonnie, that’s a rookie move, I thought. You know better than to leave the kid unattended with a half-open dirty diaper
.
A minute later, I heard a piercing shriek.
“NO! NO! NO!” my grandmother yelled, “DON”T TOUCH THAT!”
With unsuppressed glee, I heard my daughter laugh, then exclaim: “I’m all MUDDY!”
It is in moments like these that it’s easy to believe we came from monkeys.
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