Thursday, March 09, 2006

Forget Iran's Nuclear Program, I've Got the Ultimate Stink Bomb

Baby Boy is probably the least discreet pooper I've ever met. You'll be enjoying a conversation about the effects of the warming of the ice caps with him when all of a sudden, his little face turns red, clenches up and he begins to make these little grunting noises that sound like "uuuh.... UUUuuuuhhh."

And that's how you know that Baby Boy is producing a big pile of stink in his diaper. And everytime I throw out one of his disposable diapers, I'm glad that I went against my environmental beliefs and don't have to wash the shit out of a cotton diaper. I know, let the hatred for my disrespect for mother nature begin. In my defense, I'm a very anal recycler. So that should count for something.

The other night, after the grunting and face contorting, I took Baby Boy upstairs to get him out of his pile of crap and into a clean diaper. Upon opening the weapon of mass destruction, I saw that he'd had a really toxic liquid pooped that had seeped from the sides and began to eat through the fabric of his onesie.

After stripping him down naked, I went to throw the nerve-gas filled Huggie and realized that there was poop all down the side of the changing table.

Of course my immediate thought was "what the fuck?"

Not understanding how poop had gotten there, I cleaned it up, cleaned the baby up, redressed him and proceeded to go downstairs and re-join the rest of civilization, a.k.a. Sweetie Pie.

Now, Baby Boy and I have a tradition. Every time we go down the stairs, we stop at the big mirror in our entry way so he can smile at our reflections. And when we did this, I noticed he had poop on his hand.

Being the germ-phobic mother that I am, I know that I'd checked the child from top to bottom for poop, yet, here it was, again. Poop.

I took him into the kitchen, washed his hand and then disinfected it with purell gel, just because it's poop and nasty. And that's when I saw he had poop on his foot.

Now I was really befuddled. I just could not comprehend where all this magical poop was coming from.

And that's when my last neuron thought to look down and I saw that the whole front of my jean's right leg was smeared with diarrhea that was so toxic it was slowly seeping in the fabric like goo and hadn't yet attacked my leg.

I don't think I can even begin to explain to you that no matter how horrible having diarrhea all down your leg, it's somehow not that bad when you know for a fact it's come out of your son's butt hole.



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