The poop was running down the back of my hand and inside my sleeve. I couldn't help but smile. I realized how much I love my new job as a nanny to my 9th grandchild.
My wife and I signed on (begged for the chance, really) to nanny our 8-week-old grandson for a few weeks or months. Just to help the little guy make the transition to the bigger world.
Barely a week into the assignment, the excrement hit the hand. Since then I've been peed on, spit-up upon, and, more than once, forced to clean up a soiled changing table I failed to properly protect from the emanations that seem spurred on by the freedom of nakedness.
I've searched the house for pacifiers, sung lullabies, marched a fussy baby around the living room to patriotic standards, and begun to instill a love of Tower of Power and Earth Wind & Fire music in this little one (thank goodness for Siri!).
Amid his naps on my chest (giving me a chance to admire the top of his head), responding to his full-throated demands for milk, and teaching him to appreciate funny noises, it's been one of the most unexpectedly enjoyable experiences of my life. While I'm just joining Medicare, I'm returning to the time when a little life depends on me (and more-so Grandma Lori) for everything for several hours a day.
We know our nanny services won't go on forever, but we're savoring the chance to help our new family member grow into the world and cherishing every burp, diaper blowout and, most of all, big toothless smile our charge delivers along the way.