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Poopfest! (Week 17)

Poopfest! (Week 17)

parenting(6.17.13-6.23.13)

I need to dispel some crappy truth before I sum up the week, Little Man. This story here was the highlight–I’m thinking yellow, a dirty yellow–of the week:

I’ve told undoubtedly enraptured readers about your crapping a mere once a day because your digestive system is rather normalized, more big-person status. Sure you’re proud of my broadcasting that. But anyway. With this, I anticipate a sizable puddle of yellow in one, maybe two, diapers each day (you still pee in them about eight times a day, out of them about half that frequency). Usually the crapping occurs between 1 PM and 6 PM, and the other day when I heard your belly gurgling post-suckling session, I was on it. You were on the changing pad, butt clean, so I expertly scooted a diaper under your bum, and BOOM.

Or however a fart sounds.

Then there was the puddle.

All nice and orderly in the diaper.

Butt wiped clean. Diaper in hand.

“I’ll BRB, Little Man. Going to wipe this off and toss it in the wash; don’t go running off!”

No second thought here, as I was fairly certain you’d remain on your changing pad on the floor, perhaps rolled over onto your belly, sure, but on your little station since the washer is a mere 12 steps away and your big poop for the day? Donezo. Nice and clean pee wipe-up hereon out. Hooray.

I started the wash and scurried back into your room.

Sure enough, you hadn’t run away. Sure enough, you were on your belly, professing your desire to crawl already, dang it. Sure enough, you were poo–

“HOLY —-”

Your decorative red and white changing pad was coated with a half-inch thick layer of yellow goo, redolent of expired artisan mustard mixed with cottage cheese. Awesomeness. At least, that’s what you were thinking, I’m sure, because there went your glazed legs a’flailing, kicking splatters of yellow high onto the–everything.

You rolled back over. Splat. Kick-kick-kick. What was this new slimy body suit adorned on you? Such fun. Why, of course I ought to do as I do 99.98873 percent of the day and stick my fist into my mouth–

“AOAEIOHGOIEIEEEWOIUEROWOOOOO–”

Mommy wiped your hands and arms before trying to de-toxify the rest of your wriggling, rolling, squealing happy self. Cleaned your front side, then, to get your back, smattered you to her chest. Slide slide splat splat.

Audios, white tank top.

I’d never bathed you without Daddy’s help until this day. I’m all for  avant-garde self-expression, whether be in the form of artistically displaying natural secondary sex characteristics, ordors, ink (er, I didn’t say that . . .) etc., but this yellow goo glaze? A bit too much. And that’s the crappy truth.

This week in bullet points:

  • A gal from the natural childbirth class we attended where Daddy turned up his brilliance had a ten-pounder naturally. Eek.
  • Trek to STL to watch the Cardinals play the Cubs? Stop at Whole Foods, Anthropologie, and other stores Mommy loves? There was a racing heart about to palpitate up the throat, unsettled digestive matter, sweat, and tears. None of which were yours–Mommy was just worried about you. 
  • Mommy and Daddy went to the Cards game with the expectation that we’d watch a portion of it. On account of being seated next to speakers and Mommy insisting your ears be compressed comfortably with blankets as to muffle the sound, this portion of the game ended up being a precise 39 minutes. But who was counting.
  • Mommy and Daddy–okay, Mommy–led the family in the wrong direction on our way back to the car. So it was an extra mile–okay, mile and  half–in the wrong direction. There was a racing heart about to palpitate up the throat, unsettled digestive matter, sweat, and tears. None of which were yours–Mommy was just worried about you. You were all open-mouthed and in awe, following with your eyes the big buildings into the sky.
  • When Mommy passes smokers while holding you? Her pre-baby plug of the nose has morphed into a dramatic display of disapproval, in the form of euphemisms–okay expletives–and speed-walking a big U around the perpetrator, and/or a lecture to the smoker. Free of charge. Nobody’s ever called me presumptuous or protective before, no they sure haven’t.
  • You’re still working on your baby abs, tryingtryingtrying to sit up, and when you fling back onto the mattress, you don’t seem to care, you just go at your sit-ups again. Umm? Mom of a determined baby is mighty proud.
  • WHO HAS A BABY WHO CAN ROLL NOT FROM JUST HIS FRONT TO HIS BACK–THE EASIER WAY–BUT FROM HIS BACK TO HIS FRONT? AND THEN SCOOTS? JUST MAYBE CAN’T USE HIS ARMS YET? SO HE LOOKS AND SOUNDS LIKE A FRUSTRATED BABY SEAL? THIS MOM THIS MOM THIS MOM.
  • Let me just iterate for those of you who don’t know–the above roll-over milestone doesn’t usually occur at sub-four months–usually it’s six or seven. According to my no-lies child psych books. Sooooo WHO HAS A BABY WHO CAN ROLL NOT FROM JUST HIS FRONT TO HIS BACK–THE EASIER WAY–BUT FROM HIS BACK TO HIS FRONT? AND THEN SCOOTS? JUST MAYBE CAN’T USE HIS ARMS YET? SO HE LOOKS AND SOUNDS LIKE A FRUSTRATED BABY SEAL? THIS MOM THIS MOM THIS MOM.
  • Boy do you babble. We converse. We opine. We talk politics and crafts and poop.

healthy family

active baby

smart baby

silly baby

smart baby

baby on walk

baby at game

happy baby

handsome like daddy

sweet baby

sleepy baby

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