Poop goes the baby

Once the initial shock and wonder of the birth has worn off, the stark reality that this living doll-like creature is here for life kicks in. The urge to suppress a spine-chilling scream is quite natural at this point. The baby is an all-consuming presence, every second of every day.

Suddenly you remember how your friends used to say “I love babies as long as I can give them back”. And it all makes sense now. However this little bundle of joy, poop and vomit really is absolutely the most amazing event to have ever happened in your world. And so you start changing its diapers. At first it’s a breeze, because all that comes out of the bottom of them is a sticky black tar-like substance, which is odourless. “What the heck are women moaning about changing diapers for? This is a piece of cake!” Well that odourless black-stuff does not last long, only until mom’s milk kicks in, and of-course once they start eating solids, the proverbial sh*t really hits the fan.

You would think that for the astronomical costs of disposable diapers, they would be able to manufacture one which would contain the crap! No Sir! Baby poop has a mind of its own; it is a living writhing force of nature that will astound you.

Battling the poop beast

So there I was at a respectable family establishment enjoying breakfast with the kids. Suddenly my sense of smell detects a whiff of eau-de-baby-poop, and bravely I scoop up Maddison and proceed to the change rooms. Once there I quickly realise that my sweet baby has been attacked by a violent, smelly alien life-form which has somehow managed to escape out of her bottom and crawled up her back and is actually peeping at me from under the collar of her baby-grow. And it has also been curling its way around both her little legs, trying to merge itself with Maddison’s skin, in a blatant effort to take over her body.

“Oh crap, there is alien life on earth,” I start to believe.

Naturally the practical male instinct kicks in and I decide to work out a strategy to contain and eliminate the smelly beast. The key part of the strategy is not to make actual contact with it. Maddison stares up at me with a questioning look, urging me to attack the beast and show it who’s boss.

Eventually, after an hour and a whole box of wet-wipes, I emerge from the change room, victorious, but badly scarred. Maddison is a gurgling bundle of joy again. I, on the other hand am a trembling mess. I am sure the smell and colour will never come off my hands, no matter how many times I’ve washed them. Mashed pumpkin and pears have become the enemy. Broccoli and all green vegetables have a newly created high-threat classification.

Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that baby-poop could be expunged in such copious amounts, and due to the baby’s activities, could actually migrate to parts of her body, seemingly impossible to access.

All I can say now is: “I am alive, thank you, Jesus!” And the girls are off the nappy. Oh, and thank you, God, for inventing whiskey.
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