I have nothing against balls, really. Snow. Base, Foot, Soccer. Bouncy. Goof.
Go Rangers! Oh wait. They lost weeks ago.
But those balls? Oy.
I know that dealing with a vah-jay-jay, or as a good blogpal of mine put it "the meat flaps" isn't a walk in the park. Okay. Maybe it's because I have one. You know, a gorgeous lotus flower (sorry, no meat flaps here). Hell. You wipe front to back, avoid heavy soaps, and all is clear.
But the balls? Gonads? Bojangles? I feel helpless, almost lightheaded when having to deal with them. I've already left a fair amount of crap build up due to my failure to lift and wipe in a timely and efficient manner. And I still feel sort of awkward giving them the good "rubola" during bath time.
Gently. Softly. Oh.so.carefully. (Or at least, that's what I'm told).
I've lived my near ball-less life quite contently. I don't mess with the balls and they don't mess with me. We're on a need to know basis -- I know they are there and that's all that matters.
But now. Little balls little balls. I see them almost hourly, when diapering, bathing, etc. And I'm still confused. Does it matter how I wipe them? Do I scrub them? Lift them? Flip them upside down? Roll them around in a baby wipe or wash cloth?
One ball two ball. Red ball. Blue...
Okay. I really need to get out of this house.
