Get your feet wet

Because the Patriot Act SAYS I can.

Nola’s living in the basement. This isn’t optimal, but her sleep schedule doesn’t yet match Eliot’s, and the basement felt less “DSHS-anonymous-tipline” than the garage. Also, we kind of got over the Preciously Detailed Nursery with the first one, because it turns out babies are tiny design- and color-wheel-oblivious ingrates, and because you get over EVERYTHING by the time the second one arrives: the nursery, the dainty dresses, the “safety.” Nola’s lucky if she leaves the house in more than a diaper and a football hold.

So until she’s ready to move in with Eliot, it’s the hypermasculine wood-paneled guest room downstairs. And finally, a reason to bust out the baby monitor we’d gotten at Ellie’s shower; with the nursery next door to our bedroom, we’d never needed it, whereas now it’s on constantly.

So the other morning, I get up to find Mike and the girls sharing some raisin bran. (Which, while I’m on it, annoys me to no end: PEACE Organic Raisin Bran, which is the only brand he likes and which features a picture of a charlatan yogi and insists on the packaging that “10% of all profits go to peace.” Seriously, could that BE more nebulous and unverifiable? That’s like me wearing a t-shirt that announces, “10% of my income goes to wind currents and good vibes.” Stupid CEREAL.)

Anyway, they’re all together, I’ve personally verified it, in the living room. But as I walk back toward the bathroom, I hear a man’s voice coming from the bedroom. Specifically, from the baby monitor receiver in the bedroom. And surely, the vodka’s finally eating holes in my brain, right? Because I could also wear a t-shirt that proclaimed, “10% of all profits go to vodka,” but that would be both verifiable and TRUE.

But I poke my head back in the living room, and they’re all definitely there. So I return to the baby monitor, where the man’s voice is getting louder, and it hits me: we’re picking up SOMEBODY ELSE’S BABY MONITOR SIGNAL. I mean, how awesome is that? Total intimate eavesdropping, right here in my bedroom! So I crank it up, because who knows what kind of juicy, filthy secrets are about to be revealed?!

And this is what I hear.

“Honey, settle down so we can get your diaper changed…”
“Come on now, it’s just a diaper change. Lay down for Daddy.”
“Baby, it’ll only take a sec, then you can have a bottle…”

That’s right, they could secretly be Satan-worshipping, meth-manufacturing swingers, and my one accidental shot at getting some poop on the neighbors involves ACTUAL POOP and the same damn conversation that takes place in our house 10 times a day.

(That, or they have a naughty, naughty diaper fetish, which makes for WAY better gossip at the next block party…)

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