There is a good chance Gabe was pooping in this picture.
There is nothing as calming and sweet as holding your child. There is something so pure and perfect about holding that warm little baby against your chest, smelling that baby skin smell, and just relaxing amazed at the little life that you helped create. It's perfect, and there is nothing better.
Then he farts. Not a little squeaker, but rather the kind of fart that rumbles pictures off the wall and shatters that image of a perfect little person. There is no denying what has happened, and everyone in the room nearly gets whiplash when they hear the sound. I have to admit I am quite impressed.
Twice now you have caught me feeling optimistic. Twice you have proven that the fine folks at Pampers have no counter for the little Shit Cannon, Cruz. OH MY GOD. I changed the diaper, I changed the onesie, I wiped the legs and back clean. I thought we were good. We went back to the couch and rocked you back to sleep. All was good again.
Until the next day when my wife held up the blanket we were cuddling under. Until she moved the pillow I was using to prop up my arm. The blankets (yes, you got me twice) had something regarding giant inkblots (that were not ink) covering a two foot section. Maybe even more.
So beware of your surroundings in life son. You never know when you bad shit's right around the corner.
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