Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Is there a word that means "bigger than a poosplosion?"


I'm writing this naked because my clothes are covered in baby poo. If you don't want to know more than that, stop reading now.

As the parent of a nearly five month old child (!!), I am no stranger to the various bodily fluids that come with the territory. I have, at times in the last five months, had various parts of my body covered in drool, spit up, pee, poo and breast milk. Sometimes all at once. We have had our share of barfs and poosplosions and diaper blowouts that require changing baby's clothes, maybe a ghetto bath with a washcloth, sometimes even requiring an actual bath if it's 'splosion-y enough.

Look, the point is, I am not afraid of a little poo or what-have-you. I have determined that once you become a parent, your acceptable level of tolerance for having any or all of the baby-associated bodily fluids on your clothes or person increases greatly. Look at all the parents walking around covered in spit up. You become resistant to the disgustingness of things. Either that or you're so sleep deprived that you just don't notice.

Despite my increased tolerance for baby poo (hee! it's funny when baby poops on daddy's hand!), today's poosplosion and subsequent blowout was masterfully horrifying. I got done feeding my little Monkey and was holding him sweetly on my lap, still sitting on the boppy, as I talked on the phone with my dad.

It started innocently enough. There were the usual poo noises he makes after a feed and I thought nothing of it, planning to let him finish the job and then change him. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then I started to notice that the places where he was pressed against me seemed a little sweatier than usual, so I leaned him forward to check his diaper, just in case - and - AND. OMG. POO. EVERYWHERE. This was like the silent assassin A-bomb of poosplosions. All up and down his back, all over my shirt and pants, all over the boppy.

I gasped mid-sentence, got off the phone with my dad and then hollered for Mr. Fantastic because this was a job for two people, at least one of whom was not screeching in horror. Mr. F took Monkey - he had to hold him by one arm and one leg to avoid getting pooed - and I ran to strip off in the bathtub, only to discover that my bra and underwear had also been 'sploded. I can't believe the amount of poo that escaped that little body. Thank heavens for Mr. F who got the boy cleaned up and dressed in new clothes while I was hopping around going "ewww" and trying to wash poo off everything at the same time.

This is why they make babies so cute. See?