So I put Torsten in his jumparoo this morning while I quickly performed my morning ablutions and got coffee started.
Not three minutes later, I returned to the living room, prepared for a chat with my smiley baby over coffee, as is usual in the mornings, when the smell hit me.
Oh, there was still a smiley baby there, but that smell? He was dancing in it. Apparently he’d been storing up for a few days, and the diaper just could not contain the poonami (that’s poonami, with an ‘m’, you sick freaks) that he’d been storing for a couple of days, and it was freaking everywhere. Fortunately he was in just his diaper, but that meant picking him up like he was radioactive and sticking him in the bath (I didn’t have the presence of mind to just turn on the shower), and then spraying my soapy clean baby off in the kitchen sink before going to clean up the floor, and the jumper, and the bathtub, and me….
Ugh. Good morning, Mama!
I know, I know, you’re amazed that we went seven whole months without the kind of poopsplosion that decorated parts of the house (and may I just say thank God for hardwood floors, because cleaning that out of a carpet? YUCK.), but it’s been a really special morning so far, and that’s not even counting Little Guy waking up at 3 for an hour because, you know, that’s a good time for a play break in your sleep routine.
This post has been brought to you by the letters S, H, I and T, and my mother’s side of the family, which cannot, to my knowledge, go more than about an hour without mentioning something fecal.
Professional computer geek and linguist living in Germany, doing infosec stuff and being the freakiest mother ever.
Remember: Just wait until the potty training comes and the poop-a-rama begins as you’re trying to get him to the potty before he decides to go on you, the floor, etc… Ah, many good years ahead!
Potty training is a LONG WAY OFF