Ben Sloot

A buddy of mine acts as my Baby Yoda. Let me rephrase, he’s not like Baby Yoda from The Mandolorian but he has a daughter 9 months older than mine. He’s my Yoda, for babies. I’m pretty sure he can see my future.

On an unrelated note, he’s got twins due in 16 days.

So about 6 months ago he shared a story about bathtime. At some point during the summer, his daughter pooped in the bathtub. He said it would eventually happen to me. I was surprised Charlie hadn’t dumped a Baby Ruth floater in the tub already.

Her propensity for pooping in the middle of the night makes me wonder if she’s a supervillain but no matter what, after my buddy’s story, I knew I was living on borrowed time.

Last night was the night. Charlie enjoys a few bath-time activities. She chews on the washcloth; she stands up constantly. While my wife laid out pajamas, a diaper and [a new sleepsack] in the bedroom, I watched the baby doing both.

Then she started grunting. I sat helplessly on the edge of the bathtub, yelling for my wife (MY WIFE!) to grab something.

Next thing you know, Charlie was praire doggin’ it and I found myself at a fork in the road. Catch it or witness my “master bathtub” turn in to a large toilet.

I never even had a choice.