He Shoots, He Scores

It was bedtime. I could tell by the beginnings of fussiness and the rubbing of eyes. So I grabbed my darling little Owen and began his last diaper change for the night. I laid the sleepy bundle on our changing table (aka, the living room floor). I adeptly swept off the old diaper and glanced to the right to grab a new one out of the handy dandy basket set up for just such this occasion.

And then I feel warmth.

I hear trickling.

I am getting peed on.

Now this is not a new occurrence or even a shocking one.

BUT. 

My reaction? To try and save our carpet (why?) by catching it in my hands. CATCHING IT IN MY HANDS. As I held the pee now leaking through my feeble attempt as a potty, I thought...exactly when did THIS become my reaction?  

Soon I was changing out of my at home uniform (pj pants) into more of the same and I thought about my reaction.  It seems that I have moved slowly but surely from shock at the expulsion of bodily fluids, to the acceptance and even clever MacGyver-type actions to save it from totally ruining my house.  

It's a hope I have.    

**Updated to Add:  I forgot to describe my verbal reaction to this lovely event.  I LAUGHED.  I sat there with a yellow pool in my hands, helpless to keep Owen from rolling over and dragging his shooter across the floor.  Although I guess the sight of his dear mother laughing her fool head off was enough to keep him planted where he was.  Thank goodness.**