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There's No Such Thing As TMI

This afternoon my daughter had an enormous poopy diaper (not, unfortunately, without a little work on her part) and after I changed her, I was so impressed with it that I almost ran to the living room to show it to my husband. 

I said "almost".

It's a fact, though, that parental conversations are peppered with pooh; as my girlfriend Abby so ably puts it, "But it's such a big part of our lives!"  And as you'll see, you gotta keep a sense of humor about the whole thing.  Click below to read more about her pooh life.

Jennifer




Once Paul and I enjoyed ourselves by keeping up with the times: reading major newspapers, attending exhibits at the Metropolitan Museum, and seeing foreign movies.  I remember long dinners with friends, sharing a bottle of nice wine, stumbling luxuriously into different topics, rambling the night away.   Now my brain no longer functions in the same way it did when I was in the single or married-without-children category.  Exhaustion steals my ability to focus on any one topic for very long, let alone anything deep, philosophical or remotely intellectual.   These days at mealtimes, one of us spends most of the meal cutting up Isaiah's food and "encouraging" him to eat some of everything on his plate.  The other jiggles Joshua, who decides it is time to nurse as soon as we sit down.  In spare moments, I attack my food, cram it into my mouth, manners aside, trying to get something before the meal is done and the bedtime ritual ensues.  I'm a nursing mom, after all.  I'm hungry!
 
In the midst of this, the topic of discussion inevitably turns to poop. You'd think that we'd get sick of it, but both of us are interested in the following:  which kid has pooped, the frequency, amount, color and consistency.  And it happens even in front of friends who come to share a meal!   We just can't help ourselves.  I may have spent the better part of a weekend afternoon cooking a nice meal but as we're eating, I find myself telling the story of how we were at Ikea earlier that morning.  In the middle of the home office display, I hear the unmistakable, explosive sound of Joshua letting loose in the Baby Bjorn.  I snatch him out of the carrier, holding him as gingerly as I can and make for the Baby Care room, dodging shoppers who are trying to decide whether to buy the "Billy" or the "Ivar" bookcases.  "Move it!" I want to shout.  Even though I am careful, sit him down and undress him by pulling the onesie over his head (as most of you know lying him down could cause the package to shoot up the back), I have a major containment failure.   I then proceed to spend the next 20 minutes basically giving him a bath with wet wipes and trying to salvage the outfit.  Thank goodness I learned with Isaiah to bring 2 changes of clothing and plenty of wipes everywhere we go.
 
And are our guests disgusted?  No, they are parents.  My friend counters with a story of her first trip to the mall after having her 1st child.  In the middle of the dress display at "The Limited", she hears the mighty rumble that sends parents scrambling.  She attempts to change her little girl on the plush white rug in the back of the store. As she lifts up the baby's legs to remove the diaper, out shoots the largest gush she had seen, creating a design change to the white rug.  She changes the baby, shoves everything back in her diaper bag and exits the store with her head down, hoping that the security video tape has not caught the mother of the vandal on tape.
 
I find that I can divide parents into two categories:  those who have contamination issues and those who don't.  My husband falls into the former and I fall into the latter.   He was brought up in a very clean, discreet, suburban Asian household.    I grew up in rural Vermont and cared for horses, chickens, and cows.   My father would follow us around and challenge us to "pull his finger" before he broke wind, something that shocked Paul when he heard of it.   To Paul, anything that has touched poop is contaminated.  At bath time, he will carry Joshua out in front of him, not touching his clothing, put him in the bath, wash his bum, drain the water, and refill.  I count on the fact that we do a good job with the wipes during diaper changes, plop the kid in the tub and leave it at that.  Paul insists on using Huggies wipes because they are the thickest wipes I can find.  I would happily go with almost any brand and count on the blessing of soap and water.  Paul danced with joy when he discovered Clorox wipes for wiping the changing table.  I think that they are wasteful but use them anyway.
 
For all of his issues though, on the day that Isaiah was born, Paul made this deal with me: "You take care of one end.  I'll take care of the other."   He has kept his promise.  The other night, as Josh was making the telltale sounds of a great internal cleansing, Paul picked him up, held him under the arms at arm's length.  Joshua's shoulders eclipsed his chin.  He looked like a neckless, miniature football player dangling in the air.   With each toot, Paul exclaimed, "Fire one!   Fire two!"  (You've got to keep a sense of humor about these things . . .)
 
I stood up and peeled Joshua's clothing off to keep the stains in the back of the clothes to a minimum.  "Redwing fighter acquire target changing table."  Paul flew him to the changing table and carefully peeled the wipes out of the reach-in container.  He neatly folded them in half to ensure maximum distance between his hands and Joshua's bottom and draped them over the side of the changing table.  He then opened the diaper and placed the "paper towel of grace" over Joshua in case he pees, then meticulously cleaned him up using a large quantity of wipes.
 
When we brought Isaiah home, Paul would watch my diapering routine and critique it.
 
"Abby," he would say, "I notice that you don't put the tabs on very tight.  I like to make sure that they go up to the cartoon character.  I think that it does a better job of containment if he has a blow out."
 
I once found this aggravating and an affront to my mothering but I have since learned to see it as an act of love for our children.  I now am careful to close the tabs at least up to the cartoon character.  Paul, for his part, has relaxed a bit on his procedures and will even use Pampers Sensitive Skin wipes on the baby.  And he is the first to "dive in", sleeves rolled up, when Isaiah has the flu and we are going through 5 sets of sheets at night.
 
We wonder what we will talk about when our kids are potty trained.
 
So, Jen, Brian, and Madeleine, congratulations on the train leaving the station last month.  Consider it a rite of passage.

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