I thought as babies got older the shit and puke fest would get less. Of course, my children have to be different. I remember a fond day of telling the doctor that Sammy is not as gassy or have as many bowel movements as Amber. He didn’t seem worry, so I thought nothing of it. Then the whole issue of Sammy’s weight came under question and I weaned him from the breast.
Formula was going to be great. No more titty show in the mall, restaurants or other public places. No need to worry if someone would come up to me and express their disgust. No explaining to anyone. (Not that I ever encountered any of these problems, but I was always ready with a witty remark and Don’t-Effe-With-Me-Look.) And the most important, finally Daddy could take part in the night feedings. What I didn’t expect is that my son’s ass would exploded 3-5 times a day. And the smell would cause small animals to run and hide.
We have been through some pretty bad ones, recently. There was the time Sam was starting with a virus. I picked him up from his excersaucer and saw the nasty concoction that brewed in his pants for awhile. There are the countless times the poop reached the top of the diaper, without exiting, and we had to master keeping Sam still while not trying to spread pooh on every inch of the changing pad, dresser and us. Our fingers never survived, but those were easily cleaned. However, my gag reflex never did.
Today, has to be the worse. I was ready to sit down, relax and give Sam his bottle. I picked him up and my finger sank into the warm gooey-ness that is shit. It was up his back, on his clothes and on me. Oh my god, I wasn’t going to make it. For a spilt second I couldn’t decide what to do. I shouldn’t throw him down and run, like I would do with a dirty rag. I shouldn’t hand him to Amber and let her decide what to do. I wonder if I could give him to George’s assistant (she works in his office in our house until the back office is done.) to take care of. No, I don’t think he pays her enough. Buck up camper and take care of it.
I ran up the stairs with Sam at arm’s reach screaming (Me, not him. Sam is laughing. Oh it is so hilarious when you are not the one cleaning it up.) the whole way. I head to the bathroom and turn on the water in the tub. I wiggle him out of his shirt. I had to hold him upside down to get his pants off. The whole time I am screaming, Oh My God!! and wonder why I had children. I dunk him in the bathtub, not realizing that I had the hot water on. Sam screams and I have to comfort him without get crap all over me. He doesn’t trust me at this point, so he is not going into the water easily the second time. I, finally, get him into his bath seat in the water. I race around trying to get myself something clean. I know, I know. I shouldn’t leave him alone in the water. Since, I have people in my house all the time, now, I cant let the ladies go while I clean Sam up. And yes, the poop had soaked me to my bra. Sam is clean and the crap has floated down the drain. He drank his bottle and drifted off to sleep. I guess it is easy to go to sleep with a clean, butt smothered in Butt Paste.
I can accept this kind of mess with a newborn or a sick child, but on a regular basis, COME ON. There must be something I can do, besides put a cork up there. I guess I will need to move him up to the next size diaper, even though he still has about 2 lbs before the weight limit. What do I do with all the size 2s I have? Damn me and my sensible buying ahead, so we never run out. The added plus is that Amber frequently asks me to wipe her butt after she has taken a dump. Will the poop madness ever stop?