DanPar was about a month old. My dear wife was spending as much time with
the kiddo as she could before she returned to her job, engineering stuff. LITTLE DID SHE KNOW THAT WOULD BE HER FINAL
MISTAKE.
 |
| Before |
We discovered something this early early morning of
January 2015. When babies go number 2, they don’t
necessarily do it all in one fell poop.
(lololololololol) And so, as my
wife was in the middle of changing my son’s dirty diaper...well...
Let’s go back to the nice, cozy bed, where our hero,
Dadmaster, is still sound asleep. That
is, until he hears the beckoning of his wife from the other room, in a long,
strained tone:
"Huuuuuuuuuuuuuun???"
"Huuuuuuuuuuuuuun???"
I stirred on this lovely morning, dreaming of sugarplums, and
decided that after the third time my wife repeated this call to arms, I should
probably get up to see what was the matter.
I entered the room, but it wasn’t so much a room, as it was
a shrine to the horrors of parenting.
Our newborn child was on the changing table, and he seemed quite at
peace. However, just beyond his “business
end”, things were...drippy.
Somehow, our child, little DanPar, had managed to project
his, er, gooey projectile goo with incredible distance and range, and hit:
-the waterproof changing pad that people said we'd never need (ha!)
-the wall we had just freshly painted for DanPar
-the bag we used to hold extra diapers
-the espresso wood changing table that was looking so nice with the rest of the room
-the heating vent on the ground (remember, this was January)
-a small spot on the carpet
-our patterned green blackout curtains, not looking quite as green
as I remembered them
 |
| The collateral damage. |
As well as taking fecal violence upon the items in the room, there was some friendly fire. Both DanPar and his poor mother, my poor wife, had been subject to the poo-splosion.
After a small snapshot of time where I was stricken
motionless from the grisly scene, we jumped into action. Whether he was quite done or not, we tossed the kid into a fresh
diaper, and set him in his crib. (He
actually seemed quite calm about the mayhem he had just wrought.) We took down the curtains and pad and bunched them securely
together, tossing them into the washing machine within minutes of the incident. With a damp towel, we dabbed the carpet clean, scrubbed the table,
and industriously cleaned out the heating vent.
The last thing I wanted was my boy’s room smelling like baked poo (not
that he didn’t deserve it).
The last thing we did was take care of my poor wife, who had
been one of the primary targets of DanPar’s barrage. As she washed up, I told her how surprised I
was that she didn't spout out a long flow of curses upon being splattered. She looked at me with a wide-eyed expression, an expression that explained to me that she used pretty much every four-letter word in the book,
and may have possibly created some newer, more awful ones in the heat of the
moment. Apparently I can sleep through shouts of terror, but I'm susceptible to,
In the first few months of parenting, you learn a lot. This one’s going out to Jenny, my friend who just got all sorts of pregnant, my brother and his
wife (also a Jessica), and my stepsister Amy and her husband, who just found
out they’re having a boy yesterday (yay!).
Here’s what we learned:
3) Babies don’t care how hard you worked painting their room and putting up special curtains to block the light.
2) If you have a solely breastfed baby, you have some time to learn how to deal with poo, because it’s water soluble and washes very easily. Also, it doesn’t smell bad yet. Smells like old oatmeal that’s been out a couple days.
And most importantly:
1) It doesn’t matter if you felt your baby drop a load. WAIT FIVE MINUTES BEFORE CHANGING THEM.
 |
| The author's dramatic interpretation of the scene. |
No comments:
Post a Comment