I could tell it was coming. Jack was smiling in his high chair, clearly concentrating on something other than the handfuls of Cheerios in front of him. And I just knew. Within moments, my suspicions were confirmed and I literally heard it- the dreaded poopsplosian.
I hauled him off into the bathroom and started stripping him down. I have a new technique thanks to this handy article I saw recently (it only took me two years of parenting to figure that bit of genius out). I was simultaneously turning the bath water on, while balancing a squirmy baby on one leg and grabbing the soap. In the midst of the crap chaos, the worst possible thing happened; like ever. I’m not trying to be dramatic, but you seriously may not even want to read this next part.
My phone fell flat into the open dirty diaper that was lying on the bathroom floor.
I screamed. I had no words. I didn’t know what to do first: grab the phone? Wash the baby? Throw the diaper and the phone out the window? Turn the bath water off? Run away? I had found myself in an epic shit-uation.
All parents have dealt with a poopsplosian at one time or another; and you always wonder how in the hell did that come out of this tiny little thing? As often as you may have seen it before, it still shocks you every time. I know exactly what is going on when I hear my husband yell “WOAH, Are you kidding me?!” from the baby’s bedroom. I always smirk and raise my hands to the sky when this happens… glad I dodged that bullet! Jeff yelling is usually followed by a giggle from the baby as he squirms around on the changing table like its a game they are playing together. You become an instant juggler- jumping around, trying to clean everything up, while not getting anything on the changing pad, the baby’s face, or you.
I feel like poop consumes my day… and what makes it worse is that it is not even mine (like I even have time for that). In the course of a day, I rotate between cleaning it up, waiting for it to happen, planning nap times around it (just give him 5 more minutes, I think he has to poop), washing it off of baby butts, washing it off clothes, and worrying that it hasn’t happened (get the prunes!). You quickly learn within the first week of taking your baby home that a happy baby is one who is pooping all the time, and if your kid isn’t pooping, you’re in for a rough night. It’s never-ending.
I’ve texted pictures of dirty diapers to my mother. “Mom, is this normal? This cannot be normal.” I’ve spent precious moments of my life on the phone with the nurse at the pediatrician’s office describing dirty diapers, as she carefully took notes to give to the doctor. “No? You don’t want me to email you a picture? Are you sure? I’m not positive I’m describing it correctly.”
I realized the other night that our lives had started to revolve around poop when I caught my husband and I having this (maybe too casual) conversation:
ME: “Are you farting?”
-It stinks in here
-It’s probably the diaper bin…
-Ugh our whole house smells like diapers. I hate it.
-It’s probably the couch, who knows what they have done to that thing when we’re not looking
-Yup, it’s probably something under the couch too
-We should burn this couch.
-Yea… do you think this diaper smell will ever go away?
-Maybe if we burn the house down
-Hmmm….[Sigh]…Okay, I’ll take the trash out.
What has my life come to that this is my nightly adult conversation?
Soon, all this shit will be a distant memory, I know. And I’ll long for the days my boys were wearing diapers on their cute little butts. But until then, I’ll make sure I stay stocked up on bleach wipes, because that was the only thing I could do for my poor little iphone… bleach.wipes.for.days.
Because phone insurance doesn’t cover poop… I checked.