I have never had an MRI before. Gretchen warned me that they had at least been able to keep her head out of the tube when scoping her knee, but that turned out not to be a problem here, as the facility we went to had one of the Open MRI machines. They just rolled me under a big magnet and spent about 45 minutes running a half-dozen different scans. I ignored the noise and passed the time running through lyrics to songs I'd written, most of which were on the current album in progress. Sally would approve of the machine, though, as it has a very steady beat.
I came home and set up the work laptop which Doug had revived and brought over for me. Unfortunately, our software won't run, because the Stingray libraries hadn't yet been rebuilt with the fixes that I made to get them around their problems with Windows XP themes. But that was ok, because I could download those from a file at work. Unfortunately, it was a slightly-less-than one gigabyte file and the server crashed before the download could finish. Gleep. Ok, let's try rebuilding the libraries. But unfortunately again, the Stingray build process doesn't work right now unless you use their funky build tool. And the library source had never been installed on this machine, just copied from my desktop, so something was missing from the registry and the tool refused to run. I'm now looking for the Stingray installer so we can get out of Laptop Held Hostage mode.
Gretchen went out to pick up a pizza before she left for the Capricon meeting. Unfortunately, it was so late that by the time she returned with it, Sam and Bonnie were already here, as Sam was dropping off Bonnie for Gretchen to take to the meeting. So no pizza for Gretchen right then, but Sam was good enough to bring me a couple of slices in my recliner chair. We talked comic books, as I observed that I was now able to maneuver around with a single crutch, which I was now referring to as the "Freddy Freeman" look. Sadly, saying "Captain Marvel" didn't produce any great improvement in my condition.
Sam was good enough to change Katie's diaper before he left -- he thought that there had been a poop event, but it was merely gas. And he was really short on sleep. So I sat down with Katie in the stroller and bottle at hand. At various times, she consumed most of two bottles (the second of which I got up and made), while I managed to read the newspaper, review the tracks for my album, talk to Gretchen's brother jeff_duntemann, and eventually start reading my e-mail with a baby slumbering on my chest.
catalana had dropped me an e-mail asking about her Capricon schedule. I found her number on phonebook.com and gave her a call. I assured her that I really should be able to pick her up from the train station by two weeks from now. As far as her at-con schedule, well, I'd have to check, because the committee meeting was in a cellphone hole in the basement, so until they came up for air, nothing would be forthcoming.
About this time, Katie started to scream. Loudly. Frequently. Now this is not an uncommon occurrence when the person holding her is on the phone, but hanging up didn't help. Then I felt this wetness on my shirt.
What we had was a leaky diaper. Apparently, Sam hadn't quite tightened it up enough, being unfamiliar with modern disposables. ("Hey, look! Velcro!") And I was going to have to change it, no doubt much to daddy_guido's delight.
See, I've managed to go a bit more than two months without changing Katie's diaper, largely due to the fear induced by Gretchen's explaining to me the horrors that will occur if I wipe the baby in the wrong direction. This is apparently not a problem with little boy babies, although there you have to watch out for fountains, it seems. Guido made a point of doing a diaper-changing demonstration for me on an empty dealer table on Sunday at Confusion to show me how easy it was.
And these things are, no doubt, easier if you have two good legs. It was about this time that I discovered that I could shamble about with no crutches and a Frankenstein's monster type of motion. (I decided to skip the whole "Putting on the Ritz" bit.)
The only surface large enough, high enough, and vaguely clear enough to change Katie on without bending over (knee, you know) was the kitchen island that was currently under most of a stuffed pizza. Ok, that could be cleared to another counter. Wipe the grease off the island, discard my shirt, find the changing pad, find the diapers, find the wipes, find the sleeper.
Oh, crap. The sleepers are all upstairs. Grab a crutch, shamble up the stairs, grab a sleeper, shamble back down the stairs, put everything together, and then grab Katie from where I've left her in the stroller, butt facing the sky -- a position which is not making her particularly happy, but which is preventing her from soiling the rest of the environment.
Of course, this was a seriously poopy diaper. This may have been the poopiest diaper that Katie has ever produced. This was a three-wipe special. It might have been two wipes, but there was poop concealed in places on the front of Katie where poop should not be concealed. It was pooptacular.
I got the diaper on her (and asked Gretchen to inspect it when she got home -- report: "A little loose, but not bad."), got the sleeper on her, and put her back in her stroller. Interestingly, there was no screaming once the diaper was removed, despite Katie's usual objections to being naked. Apparently, this diaper was so poopy that nakedness was a distinct improvement.
And now Gretchen is home and is going to make me the hot chocolate that she promised to earlier.