Man of Constant Sorrows (My Soggy-Bottom Boy)

Before I had my own baby, I couldn't change a diaper without gagging. I couldn't clean up dog poop from the back yard. I could barely clean out the litter box without wanting to barf. If I've accomplished anything in the last eight months, it's been strengthening my stomach to near super-human levels of non-gaggage. I've seen stuff that could make (and has made) grown men cry, I've been up to my elbows in messes that make the average mudslide look like an oasis of calm and purity, and it has all come out of the sweetest, most innocent looking little creature on earth- my baby boy.

Oh, the wonders I have seen. The books try to prepare you for meconium, the stuff that's not exactly poop, but which comes out of the little darling's bottom soon after birth. Apparently this mess should be greeted with happiness, as it indicates that everything is working well at that end of things. I think "shock and awe" would better describe our reaction. What the books call "greenish, slightly sticky waste" is, in fact, a thick, dark, tar-like substance that could probably be used to cover roofs and fill wall cracks in an emergency. I guess God figured that He'd just throw that at you right at the beginning, and then anything that followed would be relatively easy to deal with... that, or He just gets a good laugh out of our faces when we open that first precious package.

Even if the diaper's not dirty (which, let's face it, it probably is), the parents of a baby boy have other challenges to deal with. If you have a boy, you are officially a target. Actually, I got off easy- Daddy was the preferred target in this household when golden fountains were flowing sans diaper. There were times my little darling actually waited until Daddy was in range, smiled happily, and wheeeeee! No one has got it in the mouth yet, and I think we're almost past that stage. Famous last words...

We thought we were ready. We had bags of newborn-sized diapers all ready to go in the nursery. We had wipes. We had vaseline. We had done the obligatory giggling over how ridiculously tiny the diapers were (only to find later that they looked way too big when they were actually ON the baby). I had even put a diaper on a vaguely baby-shaped stuffed monkey to make sure I remembered how to do it, and to get the dog used to what I'd be spending so many hours doing in the near future. We were wrong. What seemed like a mountain of diapers was actually about a three-day supply, thanks to our new poop factory's charming habit of holding back just a little poo in hopes of soiling a fresh target. We weren't prepared for the rainbow-hued packages our boy would be leaving for us: green, black, even rusty-red. And the leaks- oh, the leaks! The diaper commercials promise Fort Knox security; the reality is wet sleepers, wet crib sheets, and wet Mommy. And it's not just pee leaks. No, when you get the leaks that leave poor baby with poop from neck to knees, pee leaks actually stert to look good. This, folks, is why God made babies so cute.

Just when things were getting predictable, we had to go and start giving him "real" food. Talk about weird colours!

After this much time and this much poop, I've gotten over the gagging thing. I can clean up a head-to-toe mess without cracking a window, though I still hold my breath on the big messes until I turn blue (which, coincidentally, is just about the only colour he hasn't produced yet). Daddy's not quite there; yesterday he got to change his first poop since his little buddy started eating solids, and judging by the "oh, Good Lord!"s and the gagging noises, I'd say he gained a new appreciation for my work.

Oh, but I still don't clean up the dog poop. That's just gross.