THE POOP FILES.
All these files are horrifying.
All these files are true.
CASE 1.
THE EXPLOSION HEARD 'ROUND THE HOSPITAL.
Whenst
I became a mother in February of 2004, I was warned about all the
poopie diapers I would change. While that is true, I have changed
thousands of poopie diapers, no one warned me about the various other
poopie things that I would change. Poopie walls. Poopie car seats.
Poopie clothes. Poopie couch cushions. Poopie carpet. Hey, now that I am
a seasoned mother, as long as its washable, that's fine by me. I had a
bit of a hissy when I found out that white silk is not washable, but I
had no business wearing white silk with a baby, so that's that. However,
the night I first became a mom, all I envisioned was neat little diapers
with neat little poop piles that all stayed where it was supposed to,
and then it would all be neatly wrapped up, and quietly find its
ultimate destiny at the bottom of a trash can. Well, the first night
came and went, with no poop at all! Then the second blessed day also
went by without a gastric bubble in sight. Wow, I thought. Maybe I am
born under a lucky star! I might be that mythical mother who was loved
so much by the Gods that she never had to change a single soiled Pamper.
As with most historic epochs, a
explosion began my life as NOT that mythical mom. Most of these
"explosions" are metaphorical. An explosion of creativity, an explosion
of innovative fervor, an explosion of necessity crashing into invention.
Mine was an actual explosion.
Heard 'round the hospital.
As
afore stated, I was getting falsely, irrationally excited about the
absence of this essential part of motherhood when the doctor smiled
condescendingly and explained, oh so kindly and patiently, that
unfortunately, the baby needed to poop and we would not leave the
hospital until it happened. Thus my excitement turned to anxiety and
worry. To misquote a cliche, a watched bum never poops. At the end of my
second day of parenthood, in the split second that my husband and I
were not
peering anxiously into that barbie sized diaper, my husband scooped up
our tiny 7 pound being, and. he. EXPLODED. Before I go on, I must note
that at that second it did indeed occur to me that the fact that my
husband happened to be holding my son meant that I had been born under a
lucky star after all.
Anyway, the
ensuing clamor over what to do with the bucketful of black slime that
was now all over everything, and calming down the patients in the rooms
around us who all thought some sick godless lunatic was actually bombing
a hospital, really brought it all home.
Poop, a LOT of poop, was in our future.
And it has been a daily joy ever since. : )
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