Reading on the toilet, must be genetic

My feelings of shame and sadness for our country are overwhelming. It’s horrifying that the president is giving racism and white supremacy even more power. I used to have no negative feelings about tiki torches. Can’t say that anymore.

So that’s poopy.

The other thing that’s poopy are Baby Bop’s diapers. Gross. I know this is the foreseeable future, but still, gross. And it would be one thing if Baby Bop were cooperative. She’s not.

I understand. If someone were poking and prodding around my privates, I’d be like “what the heck?” And of course I’d try to get my hand down there too. But once there is poop on Baby Bop’s hand, there will be poop on the wall, all over her body and in her mouth. GROSS.

When I don’t let her do that, she screams, kicks and makes me wish I’d just let her have a mouthful of poop.

At our most recent pediatrician visit the doctor reminds me,

“You still need to be doing the q-tip with vaseline between her labia.”

Ok. I hear you, but at what point in the screaming, leg kicking, poop grabbing diapering event is that supposed to happen?

So far I’m sticking to my plan of old diaper off, new diaper on. Fastest to the finish wins. We’ll worry about the labia later.

During diaper changes I hand her any variety of items with the hope it’ll keep her hands occupied long enough for me to remove all the poop. Every item goes flying.

The other day I get a big whiff of poopies. I tell Baby Bop,

“Diappie time.”

I pick her up and she holds on tight to the board book she’s enjoying. I plunk her down on the changing table. As anyone who has ever read a hardcover book knows, it’s challenging to do it lying down. Baby Bop manages fine. She opens it to the page of a dog.

“Whoooaaaa.”

She turns to a different page. It’s a bear.

“Whooooaaa.”

She turns to another page. A penguin.

“Oooohhh.”

I’m finishing up and she’s still occupied with the book. I have no idea why I didn’t think to offer a book on the changing table sooner. Especially considering I’m the queen of reading in the bathroom.

I’m open to challengers, but I have always enjoyed spending an hour or more reading on the toilet. When I was a kid and supposed to be asleep, I thought I was fooling my parents. Now that I’m a parent, it’s easy to see that it takes more than that to fool them.

I still hole up in the bathroom for an exorbitant amount of time. I can’t really explain it. It’s not super comfortable. One or both legs often fall asleep. I just shake them out and keep reading.

After many more successful diaper changes while Baby Bop reads her books, I recount my discovery to Captain. He declares,

“Must be a case of nature over nurture.”

19650368_ad5e5c496e_ochecking_diaper

Advertisements

Even Baby Bop’s poop is in the holiday spirit

Baby Bop is enjoying Hanukkah and enjoyed Christmas more than I realized until this morning’s diaper change.

Everyone recommends getting babies on a schedule. Sounds wonderful to me, but someone needs to convince Baby Bop. Morning wake-up time tends to be 5am. If I’m unlucky it’s 4:30am. If I’m really lucky it’s 6am.

This morning Baby Bop slept until 6:30am. A Hanukkah miracle. I put her on the changing table and open her diaper. My heart stops.

There’s a large red blob in the middle of her poop. She’s dying. She’s hemorrhaging out of her butt. What do I do? I glance at her face. She’s smiling, babbling and chewing on a stuffed bunny. Maybe she’ll live.

I examine the red blob. I’m going to have to pick it out of the diaper. I go for it. This is love. Now I understand how not so long ago, when I was already an adult, my mom helped me get a stool sample that I was too squeamish to myself.

I hold the red poopy blob between my fingers. Wrapping paper! Merry Christmas to me.

Captain also wants to hold it. He agrees with me. Wrapping paper. He asks,

“When did she swallow that?”

Good question. Baby Bop?

She’s not owning up to anything. Maybe there will be blue blobs in her poop tomorrow.

17348a48d50caa901c2e26a854a7d585

img_2642-copy

Cause Captain wanted to take a photo and I know you were curious.

 

Now I understand why moms think it’s okay to lick their finger and wipe something off of their kid’s face

Bodily fluids. There are a lot and Baby Bop and I are sharing them all.

She gives me saliva. I give her milk. She gives me spit up and dirty diapers. I give her a bath. Sometimes I take a shower.

When I was pregnant, I figured I’d be so grossed out by spit up that I’d be changing my shirt on the reg. Not only do I not change it on the reg, I probably wear it longer than I would a clean shirt. Why put on a clean shirt when it’s going to get more spit up on it in 5 minutes?

The other day the pediatrician looks at Baby Bop’s bottom and declares,

“Her diaper rash is a yeast infection.”

She prescribes butt cream and sends us on our way. I tell Captain. He jokes,

“Baby Bop has jock itch.”

Yup. And it turns out that Mommy has jock itch on her nipples. Which means Baby Bop may have jock itch in her mouth. Yes I’m referring to myself as mommy. I talk to Baby Bop about myself in the third person all the time,

“Who loves the baby? Mommy loves the baby.”

I have no idea why. It just happens. Maybe this is how she learns my name.

The nurse offers advice for saving my nipples,

“If you can, get some sun on them.”

I would love to relax at a topless beach right now. How do I make that happen?

As I continue to care for Baby Bop’s bottom better than I’ve ever cared for mine, I bend close to examine the rash. This is a terrible idea. Captain tells me,

“I never get that close.”

Yes. That’s sensible. So I’m down there, with my nose inches away from the cutest little butt I’ve ever seen, and SPURT. Projectile poop shoots straight up my nose. Not on my cheek. Up my nose.

What surprised me the most was that I wasn’t grossed out. I was just annoyed that I had another mess to clean up.

And some messes do require a clean shirt:

img_1390