"Mommy, I had a accident," Tyler called from the bathroom at my parents' house.
Poppa, ever the hands-on Grandpa and my hero, said, "I'll take care of it."
Seconds later, Dad called from the bathroom, "I'm gonna need some help in here. Extra hands, please." A little more than he'd bargained for.
Well, turns out, poor Tyler didn't make it in time. Almost, but just not quite. There was a yucky, poopy mess down the back of his jeans. (Forgive me for graphic details, but it's just how it goes.)
The plan was for Dad to lift Tyler, and I would slide his clothes off as smoothly as possible.
As Dad lifted him into the air, Tyler started kicking. I think he believed it would be helpful as I tried to get his pants off. But since his jeans were covered in poop, his kicking sent it everywhere.
Gives a whole new meaning to 'the sh*t hit the fan.' Picture every degree of flinging. Poop. Everywhere. In giant, flying gobs.
Dad and I laughed until we cried. We didn't know where to begin to clean up this now-much-bigger mess. We were doubled over, and laughter poured out of us.
Just when we had gathered ourselves for the task at hand, Tyler said, "Poppa, there's more poop on my leg."
And Dad replied, "I know, Tyler. Mine too."
More laughter, rolling in waves.
If you asked God to give me laughter today, he sure was creative. And man, it felt so good.
~ ~ ~
Today is January 23: Robb has been gone for one month.
I have survived and breathed through this first month of being a widow, this first month of life without him. I slept through most of today, perhaps 18 of the last 24 hours. I simply couldn't bring myself to do anything else. Today's joy was hard to find.
He has been gone for one month, and still my heart beats.
Sorrows like sea billows roll, and sometimes laughter comes in with the tide.