One of the very many things we’ve been lucky about with Ezra is that he’s not much of a pooper. While friends have shared horror stories about late-night poop explosions, we haven’t had too many problems. He doesn’t even poop every day, like most kids his age.
Of course, every time we get complacent, he surprises us. With poop.
A few weeks ago, we decided to try out our stash of hand-me-down cloth diapers, and I picked a day right after he’d made a big poop, figuring I’d get two or three days of pee-only to figure out how the diapers worked before having to handle a messy one. Ha. Ezra got nice and comfy in his fuzzy new diaper, and let it rip.
The next week, I took him with me to see my therapist. The previous week this had worked fine. He’d slept through the whole thing. This time, he fussed, nursed, and then pooped enthusiastically. I changed him right there on the floor of her office, while attempting to continue talking about my feelings.
Last night he decided to really make a stand. He’d made a few small messes in the previous 24 hours, so I foolishly allowed myself to head off to a friend’s house with only one spare diaper, figuring he was done pooping for the next few days. As soon as I got there and started nursing him, I heard a disturbing noise emanating from his bottom. I kept nursing, assuming it would be something small, like his earlier diapers. It wasn’t until I lifted him to my shoulder to burp him that I noticed the entire back of his onesie slowly turning bright orangey-yellow, the telltale color of baby poop.
I laid him on my friend’s changing table to clean up. The poop was all over him: up his back, dotting his legs, on one hand. It was spreading like wildfire. When I thought I’d cleaned it all up, I tried to put my one spare diaper on him. It immediately turned yellow like everything else. I don’t even know where that poop came from.
Finally, I managed to get most of the mess contained. My friend, whose daughter is six months old, gave me a diaper meant for a 25 pound baby, and I snugged it up as best I could and stuffed it and him into the extra onesie I had in my changing kit. I had arrived at my friend’s house with a freshly bathed baby in a cute outfit, coordinated right down to the socks. I left, chastened, toting a slightly poop-streaked baby wearing a too-small onesie over a too-big diaper.
Before we had a kid, we didn’t realize how tempting it would be to talk incessantly about our child’s poop. Turns out, there’s only one stage in your adult life when you can tell stories with phrases like, “and then he shit all over me!” and have it be adorable. Why would we pass that up?