Doodie Duty

Y’all. Today we’re going to be talking about poop and private parts and if you can’t handle that, then you best be on your way ’cause I’ve got a lot to get off my chest. And before you wonder, “Does she mean she’s got poop to get off her chest?” the answer is yes. There’s probably poop on my chest because there’s always poop on my body somewhere. Small though the speck may be, I am constantly accompanied by the feces of another human. This is my life.

So, let’s dive right in, shall we?

For those of you who might not know (that’d be the two readers I’ve got who aren’t either related to me or alumni of my elementary school), I’ve got three kids: two girls, and a boy. The girls came first and then the boy was born. He was born after I spent three and a half years getting used to girl diapers. He is a boy. With boy parts.

Holy geez, was that a game changer.

Literally the first week or so we had Everett home, I’d go to change a diaper and be audibly surprised at the contents. Like, I would undo the diap and get a shock because I was so jarred at the sight of a penis in there. And who can blame me? I mean, penises are pretty weird. I appreciate the fact that they’re built for service and they certainly perform their required tasks well enough. Hell, I’m sure I’ll really appreciate the fact that my son can pee standing up once he’s potty training and refuses to go at home but then has an emergency in the parking lot at the grocery store and I’ve got the girls buckled in already and Ben and Jerry’s melting in the back and I have no choice but to let him pee on the asphalt. At that point, I know I’ll love the fact that he’s got a penis since that probably will mean that he won’t pee on my feet like his ungrateful and uncoordinated older sisters. Vaginas are no good in a parking lot. (If somebody doesn’t put that on a throw pillow right this minute, I’m going to pitch a fit.)

So, at some point, I’m sure I’m going to be very pro-penis, but y’all, let’s just face it. When it comes to diapers, girls are so much more…streamlined than boys. With boys there seems to be an endless array of skin. Like, there are literally ten gajillion tiny crevices that poop can sneak into on a boy. There’s lifting and rearranging that has to take place before the kid is clean and you’re always under the gun. Ev has literally only peed on me twice in his little lifetime but I’m still super nervous that my luck will change. And ohmylawd there is so much junk  to clean. Maybe it’s just my kid, but changing a boy diaper is super labor intensive.

Cookin’ one up.

This brings me to the poop. Can I just continue to complain a minute? Guys, we don’t call Everett the Poop Smith for nothing. I have never in my life seen a child more capable of destroying the tri-state area a diaper than my son. At one point (and by ‘one point’ I mean ‘a stretch of several months and he’s only twelve months old’) I was changing that child’s sheets every single time he slept. He’d get a bath and smell all sweetsie and baby-like and I’d rock him and sing to him and kiss his little downy head and then I’d lay him down in his fresh, clean crib. Come morning, I’d hear him laughing and babbling in his crib. And then I’d go into his room…opening the door was like unlocking a crypt. I swear, I could actually hear the seal break, “pffffchhhh,” and then the smell of decaying body death poop-purri would just rise up like a Dementor and smack me right in the face. I won’t lie. I gagged. Several times.

I need you to know that this is a smell that lingers. As a coworker of mine said, it’s like one of those cartoon smells that contorts itself into a green goblin-y face or a creepy hand that beckons you into a mousetrap. It’s one of those smells. It doesn’t matter if you open the windows, take away every offending article of clothing/bedding, that room is still going to smell like a freshly cracked crap crypt all freaking day.

Let me reiterate here: this happened (and sometimes still happens) every single time he sleeps. So, the kid goes to sleep, craps his brains out, and wakes up. Every time he sleeps.

And this is not regular poop. This is poop that escapes any and all diapers that come into contact with it. It doesn’t matter cloth or disposable, this crap cannot be contained. This poop is so attracted to clean sheets that it will find the quickest route out of jammies possible. It defies the laws of physics and gravity and I don’t understand it. What angle is required, what force necessary for a child to achieve such feats? The poop goes up the front (the better to ooze into creases), up the back, down at least one- if not both- legs, and onto the sheets. Always, always onto the sheets. I can’t tell you how frequently we’ve just thrown that kid in the tub first thing in the morning. And I’m not sorry for the time(s) I’ve just thrown the pajamas away. Sometimes it’s not worth it. “I Love Mommy” has a very empty ring to it when it’s smeared with shit.

One of those mornings…

The good news is that his poop cycle is changing such that he doesn’t actually poop as frequently. However, that does mean that he’s pooping at times when I’m not prepared for it. Before the schedule change, I’d know good and well what I was in for. Sure, I knew I’d be changing the sheets for the kazillionth time that week, but at least I had the benefit of knowledge on my side. That way I could prepare myself for battle…shirt over the nose, plastic bags, eighteen thousand wipes, pressure washer, etc. These days, the lad’s more of a stealth pooper. He likes to wait till we’re not expecting it and then release his venom into the world.

You know, like when the weather’s just changing so there’s a nip in the air and the whole family is climbing out of the car to go visit a friend’s newborn baby in the hospital. That, that is the perfect time for this kid to poop. Aaaaaall the way down the pants, into the socks, filling the car with the smell of “Dear Lord, what is thaa…Evvverettttt!” That’s the time he poops. And once again, thank goodness for my mother-in-law who had the foresight to get some long sleeved shirts for that kid (which I luckily didn’t bring into the house because we live in our car the way good Americans do) so I at least had sleeves to put on him. Otherwise he’d be left with what was left of the extra clothes from the summer stocked diaper bag. So we dressed that kid in a onesie and a long sleeved shirt, threw him in the Ergo with no pants and took him in to meet the new baby. Because I’m a firm believer in showing people what they have to look forward to.

4 thoughts on “Doodie Duty

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