Fight

Lyla was in the Exersaucer when suddenly my nose detected that she had made some intense memories in her pants. Whenever this happens, I pause and consider whether one of the dogs might have farted. I sniff again, deeply, as though into a swirling glass of red wine, and my nose palette tells me the answer. It's always her.

Upstairs in the nursery, a cursory inspection of the diaper revealed a fairly accurate reproduction of Van Gogh's Starry Night, though in chocolaty browns instead of blues.

Diaper changes are easy when babies are very young because they put their legs up automatically and stay that way. But Lyla, who is eight months old today, now prefers to twist and bend like she's doing yoga, especially when she's covered with shit.

By the way, try to say "You're covered with shit" calmly. Go ahead, right there at your computer. Pretend you're staring at someone who is covered with shit, and tell them so. If you can do it without totally freaking out, then maybe you should change the diapers of psychotic yoga babies for a living.

So Lyla and I had a huge fight because I insisted that she remain in a traditional diapering position. She screamed obscenities at me that would make other babies blush. Now she's taking a nap, and we may or may not be on speaking terms when she wakes.