A Plea for Help

“Tell me you’re coming back!” My sister cried into the phone.

I glanced at the paint tubes strewn everywhere. My girls and nieces were in mid-stroke on my other sister’s walls.

“No…not coming back until later.”

“Ughhhh!” A wail escaped. “He’s pooping!”

“Oh.”

My sister has an affliction. She cannot handle poop diapers. Her massive gag reflex could rival a bulimic girl, minus the throw up part. In most cases. And it’s loud.

“Okay.” I asked my other sister if she would mind if I left her with my kids for a bit during the painting project. Of course, she was fine with it.

“Hold on,” I said into the phone. “Be there in ten minutes.”

Her voice whimpered back at me softly. “Thank you.”

Ten minutes later, I dropped my purse on the counter by the door. Pushing my sunglasses to the top of my head, I tied my hair back and spotted my brother relaxing in a chair.

“Hey. Why didn’t you have him change the diaper?”

My sister looked at me like I grew
a tail and stated flatly, “He doesn’t change diapers.”

“I see.”

We had a brief moment of thoughtful silence together, the three of us.

I looked at my nephew, and back at my sister. With his mom at work and his dad deployed, he sure required a lot of team work from us.

“Alright.” I hefted him into my arms. “Let’s go change your poopy diaper.”

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