When Junius was about 10 weeks old, we took him to my cousin's wedding. Because he was prone to spitting up in quantities that defied his tiny body, I didn't dress him in his fancy clothes until we were in the church parking lot -- didn't want to ruin the look. It was one of those beautiful white, pintuck oufits that requires ironing and has impossibly tiny buttons up the back -- one that my husband had worn when he was a baby and his mother saved for us. Completely impractical, but Junius looked so sweet.So sweet, that is, until his enormous pooplosion leaked out all over the fancy clothes (did I mention it was white?) and onto my husband's suit. Thankfully, we had a change of clothes in the car so that Junius didn't stink at the reception (see photo of him dancing with Nanna) -- and that turned out to be the worst of Juni's poop messes, even counting potty-training last year.
Pippi, however, is another story.
Today, when she woke up from her afternoon nap and started crying for me to come get her, I was on the phone with her Daddy. Apparently, in the few minutes it took for me to get upstairs, she had despaired of ever being rescued and decided to stage a protest... by removing her diaper, squatting on her blanket for a poop, and then smearing it all over everything in her crib. Seriously -- her diaper was clean, but her sheets, blankets, lovey, books and stuffed animals were covered in shit (pardon my French).
After scrubbing her down in the tub, putting on a dry diaper and taking her downstairs to play with her brother, I headed back upstairs to deal with everything in the crib (did I mention it was even on the books? and the pashmina blanket that we got as a gift for Junius and I never let him touch it but thought it was so sweet and girlie for her to have her own baby pashmina?).
I'll spare you the details from here (and be grateful I didn't stop in the midst of all the crap to take a photo -- you don't want to know). But I'm hoping against hope that this is Pippi's one poop disaster. Is it a bad sign that I'm already afraid about potty training with her?
Now it's your turn to share a poop disaster story so that I can feel better (or at least not alone) about my parenting. And feel free to make your own puns about hitting the fan.
