I'm going to hell for sure

It's 1:30 am, and I am up with Rex again.  He's screaming in my ear because he's full and doesn't want to eat any more.  He's not one of those magic babies that just falls asleep when they're finished eating, and I'm glad I'm wearing earplugs.  I try one more time to feed him and stick my boob into his mouth, which has the splattering sound effect of putting a whoopee cushion over an air-raid siren.  He screams even louder and I resort to the deep-knee bend method to shut him up.

While hopping up and down my thoughts begin to wander, as they usually do during these night feedings.  I think about a flamenco contest we saw when we were living in Spain where the runner-up was called the 'sub-champion', which I thought was just hysterical.  Super-duper funny, as Veronica would say.  Leave it to the Spanish to think of a name like that.  (The French simply call you a loser, which is just as funny.)  I smile in the dark.

Then I begin to think the kinds of thoughts that will send me to hell for sure.  I wonder about a Wheaties cereal box for sub-champions, the "Breakfast of Sub-Champions", where the box is smaller, the rejected-wheat flakes aren't as tasty and there is a Special Olympian featured on it. I picture all sorts of kooky, non-politically correct images for box front, and I get the giggles. Then I start to wonder what retarded people eat for breakfast, if the food looks different or something, and I lose it completely.  I am now laughing hysterically in the dark while my baby screams at the top of his lungs.  Tears are rolling down our cheeks, for different reasons.  

One time my brother and I cooked up a name for a female midget - midgette, which sent us both over the edge.  We laughed forever.  Somehow that didn't seem as mean as this.  I am a terrible, rotten person, I think in the dark, and I begin to wonder about the kind of karma that will come back to me for my horridness.  By now Rex has stopped screaming enough for me to change his diaper, so I try to focus on the task at hand and forget about the special people.

So I open up his diaper.  No poop.  This is not good.  It's actually worse than finding a shitstorm, because now he'll be huffing and grunting all night working on the Big One, keeping me up with his baby noises, while he somehow sleeps through it all.  I spread at least a half-cup of Desitin on his butt, just in case he blows out his britches in his sleep and I am too lazy to get up and change him, which is usually the case.  Probably more karma coming at me for that, too. (A note to Child Protective Services:  despite my nighttime laziness, my little boy has perfectly rash-free buttocks, thanks to the hours of naked time I give him during the day.  You can come after me for other things, CPS, but not for diaper rash.)

Rex is in a fine mood now, chirping and cooing on his changing table.  He loves this thing.  He's so happy I can barely stand it, and I start to laugh again, remembering my earlier thoughts.  I am instantly grateful that I have two healthy children, and I kick my slipper against the wooden moulding, a night version of knocking on wood.  I am lucky, I think.  And somehow, miraculously, Rex falls asleep on his changing table and I swaddle him and gently put him back into his crib.  I climb back into bed, thinking all is good and peaceful in my world, for exactly 30 seconds before Rex starts huffing and grunting in his sleep.  Crap.  My karma has come back sooner than I expected, and I am awake for a long, long time.