Amber's Life with Poop

The title of this post should be a content tip-off. I meant it that way.

If you have children, or a steady babysitting gig, you have probably received a thorough education in bodily functions. I certainly I have. I've heard about foreign language education courses called "total immersion programs". Pretty sure that's the type of education I've had on bodily functions.

You have seen mention here before of George's notable diaper usage. This is the same little man who started Life by pooping on the doctor, and who went through a 40 pack of newborn diapers in his first four days. Do you remember the story from his Blessing day? And the saga continues. The story of "Baby's First Christmas" will ever after be told with the whiff of poo.

You see, we had stayed up very late Christmas Eve, drinking wassail, eating schnackies, and playing games with a few friends who live too far from family to spend Christmas there. So, everyone slept in on Christmas Morning. In fact, the first on up was George, and he woke up happy. His burbling woke me up, and Mark as well. So we took the rare moment to sit together in bed, first thing in the morning, enjoying our happy little boy, no other children crowding around or jockeying for attention.

Of course, he pooped. And he grinned. After a moment to make sure there were no further installments, I got up to get the necessary supplies for a hind-end alignment. Mark lay there, holding him up in the air, making silly faces and airplane noises while George laughed and smiled and drooled. When I came back in the bedroom, I squealed. For there, dripping down his chubby little legs and off his cute little feet, were foamy globs of baby poop. All over the sheets. All over the goose-down comforter. Mark was so preoccupied looking at George's face, hadn't even noticed what was happening at the other end. George didn't seem bothered in the slightest. We laughed at ourselves and at the moment, and wished each other a Merry Christmas as we cleaned it up the best we could. Now, when we tell the story of George's first Christmas, we will tell one and all of his generosity and goodwill. He gave the very best of everything he had to give.

But the story keeps going - because George keeps going. Take this last Sunday. I packed the diaper bag with minimal supplies, because I was in a hurry, and I figured two diapers for Yvy and three for George would be sufficient (have I learned nothing?) and I needed to do a diaper laundry. During Sacrament, I handed one back to the family behind us to clean up a mess their toddler had (cloth diapers are magnificent for double duty!...don't worry, they're VERY clean), and then I had to pull one out of the bag and use it to clean up a nasty mess Yvy made (that involved sacrament bread and copious amounts of spit). I also ended using one for George's slobber cloth, because I managed to leave my house without one. Anyway, my supply was dwindling. And just as the teacher was finishing up the lesson in Gospel Doctrine during second hour, George loaded his shorts. I had been waiting for that, because he had pretty much nursed ALL NIGHT the night before. I passed him off to Mark, along with the diaper bag, along with a warning that he was "in process". Since he was conducting, Mark handed him off to our freshly minted deacon, Jake. George did NOT poop on Jake, but he did gurp all over his scripture case. Jake is a good sport. It didn't phase him, and he didn't insist on handing the baby back.

When Relief Society was done, I found Mark in the Clerks Office with George on his lap, drooling and beaming. Mark said he hadn't adding anything further to his diaper, so I headed to the Chapel to fetch the diaper bag and change him. As I stood there by the pew where all my "mommy luggage" was stashed (we are the only unit meeting in our building, so I have gotten lazy and leave stuff in the Chapel until the end of Church, so I don't have to lug my luggage from classroom to classroom), I thought, you know, the restroom is pretty cold, and the Chapel is nice and warm. I'll just change him right here on the bench. So I laid down a changing pad, laid down the baby, and changed his diaper. I had him all wiped up and a fresh nappy pinned on him, and was digging around in the bag for a diaper cover when I heard that familiar, ominous sound. And it didn't stop. I sat there, amazed and dismayed, waiting for for my generous son to finish. And each time I thought he must finally be done, he added more. It started coming out the sides of his diaper, onto the changing pad. Where does he keep it all? Anyway, I made it home from Church that day having used every single diaper in my bag. The next morning began with him pooping up to his armpits (what? more? where did it come from!?), and that night, after everyone else was in bed and asleep, and I had just turned off my lamp, he did it again. Last night he added to family scripture study, effectively interrupting Alma chapter 29 with peals of laughter from the kids, and Mark lifting him up off his lap, just in case.

He's so cute and sweet and chubby and happy. He's just doing his job. We can't hold it against him. However, this running gag is, uhm, getting a little trite. You'd think that with Child No. 6, we would not be surprised by anything coming out of a baby. And I'm not actually surprised. It's really just a variation on a theme. But it's a very noteworthy variation!

Before children, I admit that I was shallow and clueless, and completely uninformed. I was worried about getting anything in my hair or on my clothes or under my fingernails. I remember looking at other people's children and thinking only about how dirty or snotty or smelly they seemed to me. Some days, I would like to reach back through the years and smack my former, squeamish self. Pretty sure she would recoil in distaste and disbelief if she saw me coming.