Just like chicken.

[now back to our regularly scheduled kid-centric programming]
ACT ONE
This morning Toby's diaper was the heinousest yet. Usually I am a rock of impenetrability and J is a sensitive bud, but this morning I thought I might be killed dead. The fumes jammed the room even after the mess was in our bomb-shelter quality diaper garbage contraption, even after J kindly opened the window wide.

My one consolation was that there is usually but one large extrusion per diem.

ACT TWO
So off we trundled to Cosco with our shiny new proof-of-assimilation card and a small pile of Sweet Potato Star Puffs. I thought I'd grab some cheapy chicken (GET it?!) to add to his Heiny's growing list of edibles but as I neared that area of the meat department a scent with which I am sadly familiar assailed my nasal fortress. Rotting chicken bacterial slime. I posted once about how that sickly smell made me so glad I don't eat chicken. SOOO glad. But I can't find the post and I'll still make chicken for you if you like. But who wants to buy $26.78 worth of stinky unappetizingly cloying shiny plump organic chicken breasts?

So we left with only a billion dollars of bulk daily items and no chicken. As I loaded these sundries in the jeep, I realized again there was an unpleasantness wafting and that Toby was distinctly squishy. I owe you an apology, Cosco QC.

ACT THREE
The washing machine is a lovely invention. He woke up from his nap reslimed.

How can one little pot belly fit so much evil? How?