Not that I was ever really worried, but I’m happy to be able to say Sean and I are doing quite well as bachelors. Danielle has been gone for three weeks, and we haven’t had a major catastrophe, yet—unless you count the surprise Sean had waiting for me in his crib this morning.
I try to avoid too many poo stories because I assume they’re mainly only interesting to me, but other parents will, I’m sure, be able to relate. I’ll relate this one in the second person, for added effect:
You’re awakened by the sounds of your toddler in the next room. He sounds content enough, so you lie in bed for a while longer, savoring the morning air coming in through the open window beside your bed, and before you know it, an hour has passed. You finally muster the energy to climb out of bed and pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, thinking it would nice to walk down to the diner for breakfast. You drink a glass of water and swallow your prescription pill for the day and wander bleary-eyed down the hall to your child’s room.
He’s delighted to see you, smiling and laughing and making the sounds that vaguely resemble “Hi, Dad.” He reaches down and grabs one of his stuffed animals. As you reach to pick him up from the crib you realize something isn’t right. There’s something in the crib that shouldn’t be.
First you notice a brown smudge on the sheet. Then you see something that could only be poo. He’s standing in it. But he’s wearing a onesie and pants, and you don’t understand how the poo could have gotten out of the diaper, and you’re confused. You’re still not quite awake, but there’s no denying the poo. It’s on his hands. You look more closely at him and at least it’s not also on his face or in his hair.
An inspection reveals that the poo has breached the very full diaper and fallen down his pant leg. Instead of heading straight for the diner, your now fully awakened brain tells you, you’ll be spending the next hour bathing your poopy child and laundering the sheets and, more importantly, his blanket, without which he will not nap.
Eventually, you put everything right, thank God (or your toddler’s precocious good sense) that he didn’t smear poo all over himself and fling it at the walls (you’ve heard stories), and then you finally walk down the hill, slowly, holding his hand, for breakfast.
That was how my morning went.
2 responses so far ↓
1 Carrie // Jun 8, 2009 at 10:59 pm
EW. That’s pretty funny. I’ve made it 8 months without any blowouts in the crib, yet. I’m sure my time will come.
2 Terri Barnes // Jul 10, 2009 at 7:47 am
Yes, I’m one of those people with “smear poo” stories you’ve heard about … but I’ll spare you. Suffice to say that even then, the parent and child did survive … some of the stuffed animals were not so fortunate.
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