Drake's diaper rash is still there and still really red. I decided to let him air out a bit and put down- get this- a spare shower curtain liner I had but had not ever opened. Genius, I know! I laid it out on the floor and he promptly cried. He hated the sound it made and how cold I guess it was. I covered it with towels, baby blankets and other assorted items that I didn't care if he pissed or shit on but he still hated it.
I sat on the floor, holding him, willing to take a piss fountain to the face, just so he could air out his winky a bit and get on the mend.
And that, folks, is when I realized that I am a mother. Forget having my child forcibly ripped from my uterus, or the many sleepless nights. It was not when he fell asleep on my chest and a small secret smile crept onto his face. It's not the endless compliments of what a precious angel he is. Nope, it was risking being pissed on so my son's penis doesn't fall off from a rash. It's not the sweet things you do for your child that makes you their mother, it's the crazy shit you'd do to make them feel better.