Tuesday, January 22, 2013

I'm getting Hannah's ass handed to me.

Her diaper runneth over.

I'm not sure if this is just a phase - and I'm hoping that it is - but lately every single one of Hannah's number two's is a category five butt storm. It's like there's a sorority girl down there bonging pinto beans and projectile vomiting up her back. Too far?

I don't know what the deal is. We're feeding her solids so I would expect that her output would be a little bit more solid as well. We give her yogurt, cereal, all kinds of fruits and veggies, puffs, a little meat here and there, and plenty of formula. Should I be slipping stool hardener into her bottles?

It's not just that it's messy. It's not just that it smells like the inside of Benson's mouth after he eats a muddy sock. It's not just that it sticks to things. It's that it flies out of her diaper like a bat out of hell and destroys any fabric in its way. I've considered doubling up on diapers and sealing her nethers with Cling Wrap, but I know this poop and it will find a way out. It's like the Christopher Columbus of Crap, navigating its way into uncharted and unsoiled territory, landing on regions already occupied by other body parts and claiming it for its own. It's like the anti-Where's Waldo? of poop - it's the I'm Everywhere Waldo poop. It's a butt geyser, a true natural disaster that attracts no visitors.

I might forgo potty training and teach her to go in the backyard (where Benson used to go before he became a complete douchebag). Maybe she can bury it herself so we don't have to scoop because I really hate scooping (perhaps an overlooked benefit of Benson using the carpet?).

But, seriously, what's up? I can't go anywhere without fretting about the next blowout. And they aren't just simple little diaper and clothing swaps. Girlfriend rolls around on the changing table like a beached octopus with limbs flailing and tentacles flapping and ink spewing. Oh, the spewing. Let's just say that I've had some traumatizing moments in public restrooms of late.

Just a couple of weeks ago Jason and I took Hannah out to dinner with us, joining Jesse and Monica at a cute little restaurant in their quaint town where we ran into seven people they knew. It was a busy weekend eve in this small town's most popular dining establishment; I'm pretty sure the whole town was there. We finally got our table after a good amount of time waiting, and just as we ordered and got settled at our table, the Old Faithful of Feces erupts. And erupts. And erupts. This was the holy crap that everyone cusses about.

Jason scopes the men's room. No changing table. The job was mine.

I scoop up Poo Baby and make a run to the restroom. The interior designer was clearly a non-parent because the changing table was right at the bathroom front door, a mere five feet from the bar. I could have ordered a drink when the door opened. I placed Hannah on the table, prepped the station, and began to disassemble. I placed my change mat over the probably-never-been-disinfected table. The crap-infested clothing was meticulously removed from the patient as to not smear the outside surface with the inside junk. She moved. Poo smear. No big deal; I've been here before. More wipes. Many, many more wipes. An overflowing bag with wipes and a diaper that couldn't do its job. I was sweating. She was crying. I had a completely naked baby on a bathroom change table in a crowded restaurant five feet from the bar. The door opened and in walked a woman who had the nerve to chuckle and comment, "Oh, yes. I remember those days." Oh yeah, lady? Well STEP UP and HELP! Nope, she decided to come in, comment, and flit off to her probably still warm dinner. Jerk.

But then, in that moment, just when I was sweating into my eyes and my contacts were blurring so badly I could hardly see, it happened...

She peed.

Naked Poo Baby peed all over the table, my change mat, the bag of stuff sitting on the edge, the clean outfit I was about to put her in, the new diaper, the wipes, and my hands. Everything was saturated.

Thankfully, the door didn't open up and expose this disaster to the restaurant until I finally, somehow, with God's grace, got everything and everyone cleaned up. The whole ordeal lasted about half an hour. I went back to the table and everyone was thankful to see us as they thought we may never return. I would have called Monica for backup but my hands were caked with excrement, plus she is very pregnant right now and does not deserve to be exposed to such a reality until it is her time. My salad had wilted under the dressing. Everyone else was already onto their entree. I had left my appetite somewhere in the women's room several minutes earlier.

This is just one case. Hannah gave my mom this same trouble in the mall a couple weeks ago. We also had a recent occurrence of over-crapping that took place in a restaurant during lunch with my family. I had to carry Hannah to the restroom with my arms extended so as to not ruin my clothes and we marched right past many patrons who were probably not too grateful for the poo parade that just flew by. Every day Hannah returns from daycare in her spare outfit. She has at least one blowout a day. Sometimes two. We've even had some three-fers.

I am truly stumped. I told my pediatrician about it and she thought it was hilarious. What to do? I'm so far up shit creek, I've turned the bend toward shit river, and I'm headed out to shit sea.

1 comment:

  1. I have to laugh.....although as her grandma I have been up to my elbows in it also.....and it was actually two times at the mall that day....but then again, who's counting?


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