Peanut did the unthinkable. While happily bathing in the kitchen sink under Dad’s watchful eye, she snuck out a little poopie. Then took a taste. Sadly her screams weren’t reflective of the horror of exploration-gone-wrong. She was mad because Jason had fished the little treasure out of her mouth and scooped her out of the contaminated tub. I ran in to offer back up. After we had washed out her mouth, I took the towel-wrapped baby and sat on the couch to get my bearings and decide which grandma to call first. Pleased to be naked and on mama’s lap, she lovingly dug her nails into my cheeks to draw me close for sweet baby kisses. Except they weren’t sweet at all. They smelled like the diapers that go straight to the outdoor trash. It was gross. As long as it remains an isolated incident, and with a few days separation from the event, I may just decide it was funny.
What isn’t funny is the frequency with which I (although I surely should know better) do the same. I eat massive quantities of Sour Patch Kids, and then grouse around with a raw mouth and a stomachache. I eat leftover helpings of yesterday’s worries for breakfast and then seem surprised when unhealthy talk comes out of my mouth. I am like the little baby in dirty bath water, mad at my Heavenly Father for taking from me the things that make me sick. And like that baby, the kisses I offer are genuine but smell like the trouble I’ve gotten myself into.
Garbage in. Garbage out. There is indeed nothing new under the sun.
“Out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks.” Luke 6:45
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