So I was taking a break from studying today and visiting some of the blogs I follow and have neglected in my busy-ness, when I hit some inspiration from Stephanie, aka SarcasminAction over at Musings of a Sarcastic Mind. She had a gross, baby-poop-related tale of woe. It dawned on me that I may have never shared one of the grossest and retrospectively hilarious stories of Evan’s babyhood with you all. Since most of the few people who will read this have young children, I thought you all might enjoy this little gem.
When Evan was Zach’s age, I was a stay-at-home mommy. Yeah, I hated it. I’m glad I did it because I think Evan really benefited from having me with him, but it really couldn’t have been further from my personality. But I was home and we had our routine. John would be at work, and we would alternate playtime with mealtimes and naps. During his afternoon nap, I would work on the house while he slept in his Pack & Play right around the corner. Until one fateful day.
I was vacuuming, of all things. Evan was asleep in his usual spot, or so I thought. I kept smelling something bad. I checked the ‘fridge for spoiled food. I emptied the garbage, just to be sure. I had to find the stench in my house that usually smelled of candles and potpourri, not whatever the hell that awful smell was.
I round the corner, thinking that maybe Evan has pooped and needs a diaper change, and nothing could have ever prepared me. As soon as I opened the door to the nursery, the smell smacked me in the face. Poop. Lots of poop.
Because Evan had taken off his diaper. So there was baby poop everywhere. On the Pack& Play, on the blanket, on Evan. It was smeared between his fingers and toes, was under his little nails. Even in his hair. I’m not kidding. I was already gagging. I hate poop. But that isn’t the worst. The worst came when Evan saw me and got happy to see his mommy. And he give me the biggest of Evan smiles.
And he had baby shit smeared all over his teeth. And tongue. And then I graduated to full-on retching. And my germophobe mind started to work and I thought about the E. coli in human shit and freaked out. So I tried to call the pediatrician, but really I would say a word, retch, say another word, retch….And so it went until I asked them if he would be okay. The nurse was laughing at me, because I literally kept gagging while on the phone. She assured me he would be fine so long as it was his own that he ate and not someone else’s. To which I responded with more retching.
It took me forever to clean Evan up. Every time I would get started, I would gag. A few times, I actually puked. I had to call John home from work to help me because I couldn’t finish the job. I did manage to get Evan cleaned up, finally. I left the room as-is and just shut the door, saving that part for John, who was on his way home since I was weak from an afternoon spent gagging and puking. And from that point on, when we dressed Evan, we did so in layers: Onesie, shirt, pants over top of diaper, which we put on backward to keep the easy-access tabs in the back where he couldn’t get to them should he manage to free himself of the clothes.
We look back at that story and laugh now. Of course Evan was about the age Zach is at now, so he has no memory. We have fun telling him the story of the time he ate his own poop. I think that has to be the best gross-out story in the Land of Parenthood. Well, that and the time he literally puked in my mouth.
We deal with so much shit as parents. Literally.