A Poo Emergency

For the record, I do not like potty humor. I don't find it funny. There is a reason my preschooler knows the word "crass". (He is the main culprit of potty humor in our house.) Yet, here I am processing the delightful topic of baby poo.

It was 11am and I was already showered and dressed. A win! I was cooking my breakfast of oatmeal, thinking of what a blissful day it was, with the golden leaves peeking in from outside my window. So young, and naive my morning self was. Also, you read that right, breakfast at 11am, even though I had been up since 5:45am. But food evaded me as I got the kids ready for school, then broke up fights between the older two, which led to my oldest and I discussing how I need to work on my parenting skills as he ate his breakfast and I made his lunch. 

But now, it was my time with the older children gone. Baby was in his high chair babbling along to our listening party of T Swift's Midnights. (I did not stay up until midnight last night to hear the new tunes. I went to bed at 9:30pm, because I haven't slept a full night's sleep in a year.) The oatmeal was now steaming in my bowl with a dash of chocolate protein powder and mounds of peanut butter, so it tastes like a Reese's peanut butter cup. I pick up the baby and put him in his bouncer, announcing I had ten minutes to eat, before we had to leave to pick up his older brother for preschool.

The time passed quickly, and I picked up that babbling, smiley little baby when my nose detected a familiar, yet dreaded smell. My fingertips returned damp from his back. I knew before I even looked, what I would find. A blowout ran up the back of his onesies, golden yellow to his midback. But what was I to do? A little preschooler would be waiting for me in just mere minutes. I wrapped the baby in a yellow blanket, accepting there had to be casualties in this mess, and walked out the door to speed walk down the street to pick up my boy.

We returned from school pick-up, the older brother announced he had shows waiting for him as he raced downstairs. I left him to his electronic babysitter as I trudged upstairs to the baby's room, trying to mentally prepare myself for what was in store for me. I peeled off the blanket: stained. Next came the joggers: also stained. Then the cute onesie: destroyed. I cursed myself for dressing baby boy in some of my favorite clothes of his. What was my morning self thinking? I picked Baby up off the changing table to find the contents of his diaper had slid down his back and was now in his hair and all over my hands. How?!

I rushed the baby to the bathtub. I needed reinforcements. Who could help me shower this baby off? The preschooler was not to be trusted, as I know he would find enjoyment in spraying his mother more than his brother. But the husband, who works from home some days, was downstairs in his office. Sweet, dear husband would surely come to my rescue. With my one clean finger, I called my husband's cell phone. While it rang I planned what I would yell in the phone once he answered: "It's a poo emergency, code red! I need you upstairs now!" I figured I would hold the baby while my husband sprayed all the yellow disaster down the drain. Everything would be ok. Yet, the rings echoed one after another and my hope of help deflated with each one. The voicemail clicked on. Ugh. Do I dare run down two flights of stairs with a poopy baby? I did not. I didn't want to sacrifice my clothes or the carpet as well. I was a lone soldier in this battle against the golden goo. 

I clung onto the baby with one hand as I turned on a gentle stream of water from the faucet. I placed him in the spray of water, as he slid around the base of the bathtub, leaving yellow streaks in his wake. He squealed with delight as he enjoyed his own personal baby slip n' slide, oblivious to my firm grip, trying to avoid any bathtub collisions. But that baby poo was some stubborn $#*! and it stuck like glue. I cursed myself for introducing bananas as one of Baby's first foods. A cute little elephant washcloth joined the list of the destroyed as I scrubbed in desperation to free my darling baby boy from the grips of this waste. It took time, but eventually, both baby and I were soaked but poo-free. I shake my head with dismay at the loss of the clothes. They are not the first, nor the last to such a fate.

And now my question is, who decided pink for girls and blue for boys?! What a dumb decision. All children 6 months and under should be dressed in yellow. It is the only color that makes sense! (After 3 kids, I still haven't had much success in getting baby poo stains out.)

Since you made it to the end of this post,
your reward is this cute
picture of Baby boy.