What you are about to read is a prime example of how a routine exercise can go bad. It's an example of how quickly a controlled environment can go awry within SECONDS. It's an example of how the smallest error can lead to the biggest mess.
It's 9:30 and time for Preston's morning nap. I smell-check his diaper and determine it's safe to change him on the bed. So I lay him down, make a couple silly sounds to get him to laugh, and open up his diaper.
HOLY SCENT-FREE GERBER BANANA POO! This kid was loaded. It was the consistency of marshmallow fluff and it was everywhere...up his crack, in all his thigh creases and covering his lincoln log. Sick.
I lift him up one-handed by his ankles, and with my free hand reach for a wipe. Preston decides to twist and reach for the wipe, too. He's squirming and I'm telling him 'no' (as if he understands). He just laughs and wiggles and frees his right ankle. His foot lands directly in the poo diaper.
So I drop the wipe and try to pick up his ankle. At which time he reaches for his foot, getting poo on his hand.
Panic sets in. I just know this is going to get worse. I'm worried about poo on the bedspread. But why? Why am I not worried about the poo he is now smearing on his face?
Both ankles are now securely restrained in my one hand. I pull the dirty diaper out from under Preston and put a prefold underneath him in case he gets free and his bottom touches down. I pick the wipe back up and Preston grabs his lincoln log. Nice.
I drop his dirty butt onto the new diaper, and wipe his foot clean so that I could let go of his legs. I then start to clean his hands. At this point he pulls his legs up and both feet are dangling in the thick marshmallow-banana poo. Then Preston starts laughing and kicks me relentlessly. Now I have poo all over my shirt. Sick.
I reach for another wipe. But there aren't any more wipes. At least not in the bedroom. They are in the pantry in the kitchen. Because that is where I keep them. I keep them there because I am a dumbass.
At this point my only feasible option is to put Preston's poo-smothered body in the tub. I take a deep breath and pick him up. Walking into the bathroom the thick poo squishes out from between my forearm and his bottom, and I have to hold back the vomit.
I sit down on the side of the tub and move Preston onto my lap...which just spreads the poo onto my legs. And I don't even care. The poo beat me and I accept it.
I fidget with the tap until the water is warm and fill up his baby tub.
To make matters even worse (for me), Preston is happy in his tub. He's smiling and making sweet baby noises. All while sitting in floating poo flakes and chunks. This is all too third-world for me so his bath was quickly cut short. After all, he wasn't taking a bath for fun.
Ya know nobody ever shares these kind of parenting stories. It's all trips to the zoo, catching butterflies and flying kites. It's sitting on the porch swing at grandmas and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
But this is the real deal folks. Poo is real. Poo is the behind-the-scenes meat and bones of parenting. Now I know.