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Crinkles, comfort of my couch, rustle of my nursery. My joy, my goof. Crin-kles: the crinkle of the diaper taking a trip of three waddles down the hallway to tap, at three, on the changing mat. Crin. Kles. She was Crinks, plain Crinks, in the morning, standing two feet tall in one soggy sock. She was Crinkie in footies. She was The Diva at daycare. She was Crinklebutt on the diaper genie bag. But in my arms, she was always Crinkles.
Did she have a snack? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Crinkles at all had I not packed, one lunchtime, an initial juice box. In a playpen by the sea. Oh when? About as many naps before Crinkles woke up as my coffee was cold that morning. You can always count on a toddler for a fancy poop explosion.
Ladies and gentlemen of the playgroup, exhibit number one is what the cherubs, the well-rested, simple, noble-winged cherubs, applauded. Look at this tangle of diaper tabs. *Chu!* Now go have a good day, anons, and do your best!
