After it happened, I began to lecture myself on all the ways I could have better prepared for such a moment. “How could this have been easier?” is the question I posed. I thought through all I’d failed to do that morning. I hadn’t showered. Hadn’t cleaned-up from breakfast. As for my quiet time. Well, I was gracious enough to not go there. I might have limited my “on-the-line” time that morning. Even on days when I’m showered and ready to go, fielding phone calls around Abigail and Izaak is a skill akin to coasting to the gas station on fumes. Maybe coasting on fumes is just parenthood, period. I stopped my lecture to laugh again. It had been hilarious actually, and we had survived. And even the best preparation cannot prevent the dreadful sound of a diaper detaching. Izaak was sporting only a diaper. He’d been stripped of his breakfast attire, which smelled of maple syrup and felt gritty from all the pancake crumbs now stuck to the fabric. He’d been pooping. Maybe...
