Save money when you sign up for our special offers and the chance to win great prizes!

Blow out

Written by: Suzanna December 12 2011 Disclaimer: If you have eaten recently, plan to eat soon, or plant to eat ever again, I suggest you stop reading this post now. Consider yourself warned. Last night and this morning, I racked my brain for a topic for today’s post. I was jotting down various ideas when...

Written by: Suzanna

Disclaimer: If you have eaten recently, plan to eat soon, or plant to eat ever again, I suggest you stop reading this post now. Consider yourself warned.

Last night and this morning, I racked my brain for a topic for today’s post. I was jotting down various ideas when I looked over at Jacob, who had been chortling happily for the past few minutes, and realized he now had a look of extreme distress on his face. Five seconds later, I knew why. He had pooped.

Because I was in the middle of typing out a thought, I decided to let him marinate in it for a minute. (Honesty is the best policy). Then I caught a whiff of something strange, almost delicious. It was like macaroni and cheese mixed with buttered popcorn. I got hungry, and then I gagged.

It was his poop.

Realizing this must not be a garden variety poop, I immediately got up to change him. What I saw was so horrifying, that it would have made a great opening scene to one of those weird, 1970s B-movies. (Attack of the Baby Bottom, Part 1). The entire front of his sleeper was stained a menacing shade of mustard. The poop had oozed out of his diaper and up his chest.

Now, I’m used to the up-the-back poops, but this was no such thing. This one had worked its way up his stomach and was crawling out the top of his outfit, like your greasy cousin Vinnie’s chest hair at the annual family Christmas party. Not a pretty sight.

I snatched Jacob up right away, but it was too late. The poop had trickled over his side and onto his back and had seeped into our bed, where he was laying. Unfortunately, our washing machine isn’t set up in our new house yet, and I don’t have a clean set of sheets. Fortunately, it’s on Tom’s side of the bed. (I’m not telling, and he won’t read this until it’s too late. Honesty is not always the best policy.)

I won’t bore you with the sordid details of what followed.

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I will.

When I unzipped his outfit and surveyed the damage closer, I was too impressed to be disgusted … for the first ten seconds. After that, my sane human emotions kicked in, along with my gag reflex.

I tried to remove his outfit as carefully as possible, but damage control was, by then, pointless. The poop had worked its way into the crevices of his toes, fingers, and belly button. Worse than that, it was in the crevices of MY fingers (but not my toes or belly button. Thank the Lord for small things.)

I grabbed a wipe out of habit, but tackling this poop with a diaper wipe would be like a peewee football team trying to stop the Green Bay Packers right now. (I wish someone would.) So, into the bath he went.

Usually, I heat up the bathroom with a space heater and lay out all of his towels and things before a bath but not today. Today, I went and grabbed my phone instead to snap a photo. As they say, desperate times call for desperate measures, and a picture is worth a thousand words. (You’re lucky I don’t have a smart phone.)

Five minutes later, I had restored Jacob to his sweet, snuggly poop-free self. Then, I emptied his tub (for the third time) into my tub, watched as the last bits of yellow, curdled-looking baby poop went down the drain, and swore to myself never to let him marinate in his poop again.