Peas Out Mama

blogging about life in the mama 'hood

Poop, there it is…

Oh. my. god. I’ve heard about it. I’ve read about. But somehow, in my heart of hearts, I didn’t want to believe it. The biggie. The mother of all poops. Explosion would be an appropriate term. Foul even more accurate. Dare I say, inhuman?

I’d been feeling bad for my little bugger (you know, the constipation thing, my quest for apple juice, etc.). After his not going for three days, I knew I’d be in for it. But nothing could’ve prepared me. I couldn’t have imagined the epic proportions a natural body function could assume. So now here I am, a college-educated woman (with a master’s degree no less), writing about poop. Traumatized, and writing about poop.

Be glad that some sadistic part of me didn’t first run for the camera to record the horror for you. So…no photos. And for once, I don’t even know what else to say. I could tell you about all the wipes I used, the mining of his leg creases, the necessary bath. But if you have a child, you already know, so I can spare the words. If you don’t have kids, well…I suppose you won’t truly believe the sheer nastiness of it all until some little, smiling, unassuming munchkin initiates you. And then, and only then, will you know.

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2 thoughts on “Poop, there it is…

  1. I will never forget the first time this happened to me… I was home alone and in the middle of changing a diaper. Unbelievably, poop was ejected from the child 3 feet UP the wall and across the carpet. I was momentarily stunned with shock and awe. The silence was broken when Chrisina came home and the only words I could muster were, “Honey, the baby exploded!”

  2. Hee! We call it a Fecal Hiroshima. Also, Level 5. Or sometimes, we just say “it’s the apocalypse!”

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