No blog is complete without a poop story

...And I'm sure this won't be the last. This is a tale of what parents call (or at least this parent) a "Poo-splosion". Right now my spell-checker is going blinky trying to tell me there is no such word, when in all actuality, it just means that the dictionary was written by someone with no kids.

This certainly isn't the first time, but it's definitely one I'll remember for the rest of my life, I kid you not.  And, when the Bug brings home his first date for me to meet, the first thing I'm going to do is make her read this post.  Sort of a pre-emptive birth control, if you will.

   So, it's a peaceful Saturday, and it's me, Baillee and Holden hanging out, watching Wall-e.  I'm bouncing the kiddo on my knee when I detected a distinct poo smell.  I had just changed him, and it did NOT smell like baby poo, and I was pretty sure I hadn't pooped my own pants, so I looked at the dog.  

"You crap on the floor, Bailee?"  She gives me this sidelong look like "Dad, when was the last time I pooped on the floor, seriously"

"Yeah, guess you're right..."

So, I look down again at the boy's back, and like something out of a B horror flick, I see this brownish-green stain spreading across his shoulder blades. 

"OHGODOHGODOHGOD SHITE!  

Holden looks back at me, like : "Whoa, dad, wassa matter?"

So I pick him up, holding him as far from me as possible, as the Exxon-Valdez eco-hazard continues to migrate up his back and into his hairline.

I gotta tell ya, I froze.  I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, internally Googling "What to do if your child is being eaten by a Poo-Monster".  No results.

I run upstairs, eyes wild with panic as I see greenish poop starting to ooze out TOP of his shirt.  We reach the changing table, and sit him down while he's giving me this look like: "Jesus, dad, you look like you ate the brown acid..."

Now at this point, I'm paralyzed.  I cannot, through any forms of baby-Jenga figure out a way to get him out of his clothes, and into the bathtub without getting poo on every surface of the room.  So we just kinda stare at each other for a bit, while I turn him this way and that to get a good angle on how to get him out of his shirt. I somehow manage in one pull, to get him out of a long sleeved shirt, which goes straight to the trash.  Fuggit, it's a lost cause anyhow, and I don't want any reminders of this.  There's a continuous hump of poop from his little crack all the way up into his hair.  I pick him up slightly, and pull off his lil pants, noting that I need to get his diaper off before putting him into the tub.  

I run to the bathroom to start the water warming up, and I hear a fart behind me that is so loud, I expect to turn around and see a room full of truckers.  Running back to the boy,  I see that he must not have been finished, and more poop is oozing out the top of the diaper.  At this point, I lose track of all logic, and the simple instinct to contain the poop before it devours my child takes over.

"DAMNDAMNDAMNDAMN"

I grab the kid under his armpits, and, holding him out in front of me, he looks me in the eye, grunts, and sends another trucker-fart out the top of his diaper, grinning.  A glob of poo chooses this moment to dislodge itself and fall, cooling, onto my bare foot.  

"NOOOOOO!!!"

So I depostit the kid in the tub, and reach for the wipes in order to get the offending substance offa my foot when Holden starts making little uncomfortable grunty noises.  I look over, and to my horror, I realize I forgot to take his diaper off!  It's soaking up the bathwater at an alarming rate, and has expanded to about four times its original size, squeezing my son in its grip like a small white python.  

"AH GODIT'S GONNA BLOW!!!"  I bellow.

I reach over, get the tabs undone, and the diaper unfolds, releasing its prey as well as it's eco-hazard cargo.

OK.  I'm rinsing him off the best I can, and after a good upper body and hair washing, it's time to get the lower half.  Now, usually when I wash his southern hemisphere, I can get him to balance a bit, standing with my left hand holding him up under his armpit and the other wielding the washcloth.  This time, due to the extreme levels of soap I had going, he cannot get any traction, so his feet keep sliding apart, slowly doing the splits, and all I can see is the top of his head as he looks down to figure out what's going on.  I get my right hand back up under him, lift him back up, wait for him to get some traction, and bam, as soon as I take my hand back to wash his lil crack, he begins his slow descent into the splits.  He looks at me with the most puzzled and alarmed look on his face like:

"Daddy, whats happenin with my FEETZ?"

Lord help me, I start laughing hysterically.  Here I am, kneeling by the tub, half covered in poop, holding my little nekkid baby up, while he stares at his feet trying to figure out what they are doing, and I'm laughing my fool head off.  Tears are streaming down my face as the Bug looks at me with a grin.  The dog comes to the base of the stairs to check out what all the hillarity is about, and I finally just hugged him to me and finished cleaning him while he chewed on my shoulder.

And that, my friends, is how you know you're a dad.  When the situation is hopeless, you're outta options and covered in poop and you can still laugh.