the story of eww
Digestive issues shouldn't really be up for discussion on a public forum such as the internet. This is especially true if these issues are not your own as after all, having one's innards outed by a third party just ain't right. Be that as it may, this entry is about Daniel's poo. Sorry kid.
Every since he was a wee lad, the deebs has been a turbo charged, power poo-er, responding to his creative (ahem) urges constantly throughout the day. This kid pooed so much and so often that buying him a t-shirt bearing the slogan "No Nappy* Left Unsoiled" was in consideration. Fascinating stuff, and proof that magic is real and that you can in fact pull something substantial out of thin air. Dude only drinks milk, not four pound steaks followed by a bucket of coleslaw, and yet he's dropping flotsam like a trucker after a weeklong barbecue. Amazing. This is all moot though as a few days ago, his creativity dried up overnight and since then, nothing. Even his farts went missing.
Before making the dash to the ER, I checked with google and lo! it seems that this is a natural part of a baby's development. Other mothers concurred, so I chilled the fuck out and began to enjoy the poo-less nappies and the beginning of my days of wine and roses. It occured to me then though, that this was a lull period, the calm before what could become a periodical storm, for while Daniel had ceased producing copious amounts of poo every day, he was now producing the same amount but liberating it less frequently. According to google told, at this point in his life, he's likely to be laying his special brand of cable only once or twice a week.
I'd heard tales of steaming rivers of poop escaping nappies and burning holes into the earth's crust, so I waited.
And waited.
And I then worried a bit too, mostly about the emission force of the expected delivery. Dude had already been levitating with every *poot* before this backup began, so the anticipation of having him shot halfway to China if I wasn't waiting at his southern end wearing a catcher's mitt was excruciating. Also, the predicted volume of this mega poo scared me. I couldn't spend every hour crouched down there with a goldfish bowl over my head for protection and a ten gallon drum on hand to catch what the nappy wouldn't, so I tightened the fasteners at every nappy change and with grim determination, and waited some more. I also got my passport in order in case I needed to retrieve him in a hurry from some foreign land.
The day before yesterday, he smiled at me as he filled his pants, and I don't know what all the fuss was about. The deluge I expected was instead, a modest amount of containable shit. Granted, this was more liquid and certainly a higher volume than his previous norm, but it was fully contained by that god given sphagnum and Daniel's nappy's double elasticised pants legs. Angels sung, the birds returned, and this new style of crapping every other day or so seemed a fair exchange for the literal shitload of poopy pants the deebs previously got through every day.
As you know, Daniel and I lie around together like a couple of old tarts in the morning, so when he luxuriously farted yesterday while curled up beside me, my immediate thought was of a red alert nappy change. Then I remembered his new routine of Every Other Day Or So, and I relaxed. Because this routine isn't yet well practiced, before I nodded back off to sleep, I felt his little tush through his pyjamas, testing for the tell tale warmth of a newly hatched dump. Everything was in order back there, so I snuggled the lad closer and...zzzzzz.
Waking later to find the smell of that ripe fart had cranked up the volume, my gentle calm of an hour earlier fucked right out of town. Daniel was flat on his back and snoring beside me, so wide eyed with expectant horror, I tipped him over - and found his toxic waste had escaped his nappy, crept up his back, pooled inside his onesie, and was threatening to take over the world. There was an ocean of that stuff leaking all over the place, totally eclipsing yesterday's personal best. While I'm the idiot who didn't expect this copious aftershock, I'm not a total idiot, so I muttered my thanks to the God of Mattress Protectors, put Daniel back where I found him, tip toed out and left him to sleep it off.
Hey, if dude wasn't fussed about sleeping in his awesome puddle of poo, then neither was I.
The end.
*diaper, freaks.
Every since he was a wee lad, the deebs has been a turbo charged, power poo-er, responding to his creative (ahem) urges constantly throughout the day. This kid pooed so much and so often that buying him a t-shirt bearing the slogan "No Nappy* Left Unsoiled" was in consideration. Fascinating stuff, and proof that magic is real and that you can in fact pull something substantial out of thin air. Dude only drinks milk, not four pound steaks followed by a bucket of coleslaw, and yet he's dropping flotsam like a trucker after a weeklong barbecue. Amazing. This is all moot though as a few days ago, his creativity dried up overnight and since then, nothing. Even his farts went missing.
Before making the dash to the ER, I checked with google and lo! it seems that this is a natural part of a baby's development. Other mothers concurred, so I chilled the fuck out and began to enjoy the poo-less nappies and the beginning of my days of wine and roses. It occured to me then though, that this was a lull period, the calm before what could become a periodical storm, for while Daniel had ceased producing copious amounts of poo every day, he was now producing the same amount but liberating it less frequently. According to google told, at this point in his life, he's likely to be laying his special brand of cable only once or twice a week.
I'd heard tales of steaming rivers of poop escaping nappies and burning holes into the earth's crust, so I waited.
And waited.
And I then worried a bit too, mostly about the emission force of the expected delivery. Dude had already been levitating with every *poot* before this backup began, so the anticipation of having him shot halfway to China if I wasn't waiting at his southern end wearing a catcher's mitt was excruciating. Also, the predicted volume of this mega poo scared me. I couldn't spend every hour crouched down there with a goldfish bowl over my head for protection and a ten gallon drum on hand to catch what the nappy wouldn't, so I tightened the fasteners at every nappy change and with grim determination, and waited some more. I also got my passport in order in case I needed to retrieve him in a hurry from some foreign land.
The day before yesterday, he smiled at me as he filled his pants, and I don't know what all the fuss was about. The deluge I expected was instead, a modest amount of containable shit. Granted, this was more liquid and certainly a higher volume than his previous norm, but it was fully contained by that god given sphagnum and Daniel's nappy's double elasticised pants legs. Angels sung, the birds returned, and this new style of crapping every other day or so seemed a fair exchange for the literal shitload of poopy pants the deebs previously got through every day.
As you know, Daniel and I lie around together like a couple of old tarts in the morning, so when he luxuriously farted yesterday while curled up beside me, my immediate thought was of a red alert nappy change. Then I remembered his new routine of Every Other Day Or So, and I relaxed. Because this routine isn't yet well practiced, before I nodded back off to sleep, I felt his little tush through his pyjamas, testing for the tell tale warmth of a newly hatched dump. Everything was in order back there, so I snuggled the lad closer and...zzzzzz.
Waking later to find the smell of that ripe fart had cranked up the volume, my gentle calm of an hour earlier fucked right out of town. Daniel was flat on his back and snoring beside me, so wide eyed with expectant horror, I tipped him over - and found his toxic waste had escaped his nappy, crept up his back, pooled inside his onesie, and was threatening to take over the world. There was an ocean of that stuff leaking all over the place, totally eclipsing yesterday's personal best. While I'm the idiot who didn't expect this copious aftershock, I'm not a total idiot, so I muttered my thanks to the God of Mattress Protectors, put Daniel back where I found him, tip toed out and left him to sleep it off.
Hey, if dude wasn't fussed about sleeping in his awesome puddle of poo, then neither was I.
The end.
*diaper, freaks.
posted by aibee at 19:25
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