I've had a request to run this column again. I can't think why. Once you've waded into biological warfare this intense, you don't usually choose to re-enter the battlefield. Somebody must have lost a bet.
Nothing brings Moms together like a discussion of dirty diapers of the dynamic kind. When it comes to Toxic Baby Poop, We Are Family. No matter what gruesome tales are told, we all feel that our own baby would capture the prize in a diaper-runneth-over derby.
One friend, whose daughter is a new player on the baby poop battlefield wrung her hands (and the blouse she just washed out) as we discussed the adventures that come with having a baby. Her husband was no help on the field of battle, she said, because every time he approached the offending area, he would gag and retch, thus making a bigger mess than the original culprit. I couldn’t help but recall my first foray into deep doody.
When my oldest son was just a couple of weeks old, we ran into the constipation Wheel of Fortune. The doctor advised a little of the apple/prune juice available for babies. It came in a small, innocent bottle in the baby food section of the grocery store and sported a label bearing a smiling, chubby-cheeked chap obviously free of intestinal blockage. Our little guy found the taste quite agreeable and downed the whole bottle.
All at once the sky grew dark, the ground trembled, and people snatched their children from sandboxes in the back yard as they ran to take cover in their basements. Suddenly a volley of semi-solid ammunition erupted from the baby and coated the family like a factory-fresh box of Milk Duds.
Even Bounty wasn’t a quick enough picker upper that day. We just ran the garden hose through the living room and washed the waste outside to fertilize the garden. Nothing has grown in that patch of ground since.
That first diaper demolition derby was a long time ago. Nowadays that baby is a responsible citizen with a job and a hearty appetite.
One friend, whose daughter is a new player on the baby poop battlefield wrung her hands (and the blouse she just washed out) as we discussed the adventures that come with having a baby. Her husband was no help on the field of battle, she said, because every time he approached the offending area, he would gag and retch, thus making a bigger mess than the original culprit. I couldn’t help but recall my first foray into deep doody.
When my oldest son was just a couple of weeks old, we ran into the constipation Wheel of Fortune. The doctor advised a little of the apple/prune juice available for babies. It came in a small, innocent bottle in the baby food section of the grocery store and sported a label bearing a smiling, chubby-cheeked chap obviously free of intestinal blockage. Our little guy found the taste quite agreeable and downed the whole bottle.
All at once the sky grew dark, the ground trembled, and people snatched their children from sandboxes in the back yard as they ran to take cover in their basements. Suddenly a volley of semi-solid ammunition erupted from the baby and coated the family like a factory-fresh box of Milk Duds.
Even Bounty wasn’t a quick enough picker upper that day. We just ran the garden hose through the living room and washed the waste outside to fertilize the garden. Nothing has grown in that patch of ground since.
That first diaper demolition derby was a long time ago. Nowadays that baby is a responsible citizen with a job and a hearty appetite.
And we know the plumber by first name.
6 comments:
Glad you ran this again because it was hilarious...but ended too soon. I wanted more fecal hilarity!! Thanks for the laugh. I could so relate to many of those moments and a few of my very own special charming ones.
Claire, I had two boys, so there's plenty more where that came from. It's nice to share it with folks who appreciate it!
By the way, I'd love to hear some of yours. We could wade through it together!
I'll mull it over. Some horrors are best kept safely stowed in my memory banks rather than unleashing them upon the unsuspecting public...yes, even those such as yourself. I'll give you a hint though. Imagine if you will, an airplane in its final stage of descent, when everyone's strapped in and no one can move...except a baby's bowels.
I have 2 sons too. The pee-pee stories are also a howl.
That last sentence didn't come out as clearly as I'd like. I should have said "wee-wee" stories lest there be confusion.
Sounds like you've got some great stories--notice how the stories that happen to somebody else are the best?
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