“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.”
