Can I take a minute to write about up-the-back poops? I can? OK great.
So you’re playing with your baby whose puffy cheeks have really outdone themselves in nominess that day when you smell something kind of like baking bread but kind of completely not, and then your baby’s diaper is suddenly and unusually warm, so you take him to the changing table. You pull off his pants, undo his onesie, open the diaper and BOOM! Your bouncing little baby has somehow pooped not downwards in a normal human fashion but amazingly, inexplicably, STRAIGHT UP. His onesie is covered in this orange, wet-clayish poo from his darling baby bottom to his sweet baby neck. And by “darling” and “sweet,” I mean “repulsive.”
As you reach for a wet wipe the baby, who does not yet have full control of his arms (or maybe he does), sticks his hand right into the poop that is now also oozing to the front of his thighs. You wipe his hands. You wipe his back. This only serves to spread the mass of feces even further. The baby looks up at you and coos happily. Mamamamama. Dadadadada. Gooooooooo.
You realize your only hope is to get him out of the onesie, and the only way to do that is OVER his HEAD. Yes, you must carefully extricate a poo-filled onesie over your baby’s head and try not to smear any in his hair or ears. It is the cruelest version of Operation ever. You fail. In fact, you have never won this game. Not once.
So now the onesie is off, there is poop in your baby’s hair, and you lay him on his tummy in the hopes that his poopy back will not contaminate completely every surface in the room. You reach for more wet wipes. When you turn back your baby has discovered and is playing with a poop smear on the changing table. The changing table looks like a war zone now. Luckily you spy a blanket on the floor and toe it open, then lay baby atop it to finish wiping any visible poo marks off his thighs. You get him into a clean onesie. You notice poo smears all over your hands, your arms, even your shirt from when you carried baby to the clean blanket. You both either need a bath or a biohazard suit, but that will have to wait.
Your husband then walks in. “Can I help with anything?”
You are, as always, blown away by his impeccable timing. You give him the baby and say, “Here, hold this.”
You throw everything possible into the laundry, then return to the nursery. There is your husband, covering your son with zerberts all over the thighs that just minutes ago were coated with poo.
You say nothing.
Then you open up your blog and begin to write…
WHAT (MIGHT BE) COOKIN’ 2NITE:
Tomato/red pepper soup
Fried ricotta cakes