Well, poop.

Disclaimer: This is a mommy post, mostly about poop. If you’re squeamish about poop, you probably shouldn’t read it.

It’s been a blow out kind of week. It started on Monday. My not-so-little anymore babe was sitting in his Bumbo, happily chewing on his fingers when suddenly he got that look in his eye, and made that certain facial expression that only means one thing: poop. Soon enough, he was grunting away, and I could hear the telltale squirts and toots coming from his rear. I gave him a few more minutes to make sure he was done, and then lifted him from the Bumbo, and laid him down on a blanket on the floor to change him, as I’ve done a few hundred times before.

But this time, when I undid his sleeper and began to undo his diaper, I realized there was a lot more poop than usual, and when I lifted his feet to look under him, I saw, with horror, poop all the way up his back. Like, all the way. Almost to his neck. For a brief moment,  I wished desperately that the Hubs was home, because even thought it was really only a one person job, I felt like I needed to confer with another adult as to what the plan should be. I gathered everything up in my arms, took the little babe up to his change table, and began the long and laborious process of taking off his clothes, cleaning all the poop off of him, and getting him dressed again. Then of course, there was the question of what to do with the clothes. I thought seriously about throwing it all into a garbage bag and tossing it out the front door, but in the end decided I shouldn’t be so frivolous, and rinsed them out in the tub, treated them with stain remover and put them in the wash. Then I scrubbed the tub. Success. I felt pretty proud of myself for handling the situation so efficiently, and even laughed about it with my sisters via text message.

But when the exact same thing happened the next day, I didn’t find it so funny. And it was even less funny the day after that.


The great offender. On his throne.

Which brings us to Wednesday night. When the Hubs got home from work, Mateo wanted to know what sound an elk makes. So, out came the computer and within minutes the house was filled with the creepy calls of various elk (seriously those things make the creepiest sounds). Inevitably, seeing the elk inspired the hunter in my Hubs, and soon all four of us were sitting on the couch watching moose hunting videos (I still don’t really understand why I got sucked into that activity). Luka was perched on my knee, and decided that would be the perfect opportunity to have his second massive poop of the day. This time, I checked his back carefully before setting him down to change him. It was, happily, poop free. So imagine my surprise when, after plopping him on the floor, I suddenly found that not only his pants, but also my pants as well as my hands were scattered with it. I shrieked in alarm, glared at the Hubs for laughing at me, and proceeded, once again, to rid both babe and I of poop. Ten minutes or so later, the babe and I descended clean and ready to get on with our evening.

At least, I thought I was clean. In fact, the next morning, when I went to retrieve my shirt from the pile on the floor where I had left it the night before, I realized there was poop on it. Like, a lot of poop. I had gone the whole rest of the evening, which included supper, playtime, bath and bedtime for the kids, and a movie with the Hubs, with poop on my shirt. A new low.

So today, I was not going to be trifled with. When I looked over from feeding the toddler and saw the babe making the poop face, a plan began to form in my head. I waited patiently until I was sure he was done, then sprang into action. Ever so gently, I lifted him from the Bumbo, carefully extracting his chubby thighs from the tight grip of the leg holes. But instead of perching him on my arm as I usually do, I had a moment of pure genius. You see, I realized the reason the poop was shooting up his back had more to do with my positioning of him than with the chair. So this time, I placed him on his tummy, and carried him superman style, all the way upstairs. He screamed in delight, as though congratulating me on my brilliance. At the same time, I undid the buttons on his onesie, and had it pulled way up to his neck before I laid him down on the change mat. He kicked his legs in applause. And this time, when I changed his diaper, I was able to put back on the same outfit he had been wearing prior to the poop. Boom.

Sometimes being a mama is all about the little victories. Even poopy ones.


2 thoughts on “Well, poop.

  1. Patrick has had more poops escape his diaper than have stayed contained. He must have a deep bum crack that makes a great cannon barrel or something. I don’t know. When he was sitting in the bumbo, the positioning ALWAYS made him poop. If I wanted him to poop, I would just need to sit him in the seat. But no matter how fast I would get to him after the explosion, it was always already up his back. I have done many on-the-belly diaper changes, and a couple directly in the bathtub. Thanks to growing up, his real food intake is helping with this problem!


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