Between having a serious case of firebutt for the last few days and just changing an epic Eli poop-splosion - I figured it was the universe's way of telling me it was time to post the next segment in the "blog six months worth of baby-related everything before I forget it all" series. (You know, because I couldn't possibly have better things to do. Like maybe changing the shirt I've been wearing for three days straight.) Anyways. Next topic? Poop. Pee. Diapers. Because what kind of parent would I be if I didn't post things that will horrify my son as a teenager. (You're welcome for that, by the way, Eli.) And, you know, heaven forbid I forget about his pooping habits.
So, of course we start at the beginning, when Eli was born. While we were staying at the hospital, I never changed Eli's diaper once. Not to say I wasn't willing - Shawn was just smart enough to know that not only was I busy peeing all over mydamnself and changing my own stupid diaper - but I had just pushed a small human out my crotch and was kind of exhausted - and even though he was pretty exhausted himself, he stepped up to the plate, like usual. Up until that point, he had changed a grand total of ZERO diapers in his life. Zero. That changed very quickly. So, between him and the nurses, I pretty much avoided all that mess for the first few days.
So, we finally get home, and Shawn had to go work for a little bit - and I'm left alone with a tiny pooping machine that I still hadn't actually changed yet. Now, another one of the (several) things people take it upon themselves to warn you about prior to having your first child is the meconium - which is pretty much a fancypants word for nastyass, black tar, poop your kid will have for the first several days of his or her life. Just when you think poop can't get any grosser, it does. So, here I am, ready to change my son's diaper for the very first time, and admittedly, I was a little nervous. Up to that point, I had changed no less than 8 million girl diapers - but I had never actually maneuvered my way around the tiny twig and doodleberries. So, I take off his diaper, and of course the first thing he does is pee right in his own face. He continues to pee for what feels like forever while all my simultaneous efforts to cover his peter mid-stream prove absolutely futile. By that point, he was laying in an almost-impressive puddle of baby tinkle. I then made the colossal mistake of picking up my butt naked child while I tried to dry him and the surrounding pee-zone off. That is, until I heard a fart and a subsequent squirt that no one wants to hear when they're holding a naked infant. I pulled him away from me to see that I had sticky, black tar poop all down the front of my shirt. I finally just laid a giant towel down and put him down on it while I hauled serious tail to get him wiped off and covered. Of course, that wasn't before he had a chance to pee on me. Again. After finally getting a diaper on him - I spent the next 10 minutes trying to wipe his poop off my shirt. That shit's like glitter. It's pretty much on you forever. Proven by the fact that you can still see the outline of where he pooped on the shirt I was wearing. So, you could say I was well-initiated into the boy diaper-changing scene. Thanks for that, son.
The next several weeks were a constant battle of not getting peed or pooped on. And by weeks, I mean months. I can't even begin to tell you how many times Eli has peed or pooped on me and/or himself while I've been changing an already poopy diaper. Luckily for me, he usually would pee in his own face instead of mine - but that meant he was peeing all over his onesie as well. Which meant that there were days that we were changing his onesie at least 20 times. People had suggested getting Eli some Pee-Pee Teepees. Because apparently that's a thing. I couldn't bring myself to spend money on a penis party hat, when I figured a washcloth would work just as well.
Anyway, we finally figured out that the cool air hitting his baby bits may have been shocking him into peeing the second we took off his diaper - so before we'd completely take the diaper off, Shawn and I would sit there and blow into his diaper until he peed, which might be totally weird, but it worked just about every time. That's not to say he still wouldn't pee again if we weren't fast enough. Or poo, for that matter. Because that's really half the battle: being fast enough. It's just a race against nature. And there's nothing quite like a baby farting on your hand as you frantically wipe ass cream on their crack to let you know you're not moving fast enough. And sometimes, say, at 3 o'clock in the bloody morning, you won't move fast enough. And you want to know what happens? You get pooped on. Not once, not twice, but three times. THREE. TIMES. Every time he does it, you'll be sure that Mount Vesiuviass is done erupting the yellow, seedy poopsoup that is your life. You'll put a nice, clean diaper under him - and before you even have a second to blink, he'll be frothing out the poop chute onto his nice, clean canvas again. And just when you're about to scream and throw all 3 poopy diapers at your sleeping husband, your kid will give you one of those all-elusive actual smiles. Although it might seem totally cheeky, given the current, literal shitty circumstances - your heart will gush and it suddenly doesn't matter that you've spent the last 20 minutes wiping your kid's butt, because baby smiles make everything better.
We've had some wins though. You know, when we are fast enough and everyone can walk away human excrement free. That's a pretty triumphant feeling. Triumphant until you hear your kid pooping 5 minutes later. Admittedly, I've had moments where I've pretended not to hear him poop - because... reasons. I know. Mom points. There's also other times, where you think you've been triumphant - until you find your kid's poop on the wall, or in your hair, or in his hair, or smeared on your pants, or in your wedding ring - with absolutely no recollection of how it got there. So now, in addition to worrying about surprise poop-splosions, you now get to worry about secret, ninja poop.
I remember reading on the internet that it was completely normal for an exclusively breastfed baby to only poop once a week. Say WHA?! My breast milk must have had some serious fiber, or something, in it, because that was not the case for Eli. Dude had poop in every. single. diaper. for the longest time. Sometimes it was only the shart marks - but nevertheless, poop. Every time. At some point in his life (which, of course, I can't remember), I started getting the occasional pee-only diapers. And instead of basking in the glory of no poop - naturally, I panicked. That's when you know your kid poops a lot. And that you're a paranoid psycho.
One of Eli's many endearing poop faces. I call this one The Quasimodo.
Anyway, these days are going much better than when he was younger. We have a nice, normal amount of poopy and wet diapers. He doesn't pee/poo on us nearly as much as he used to - which is refreshing. But he'll obviously do it every now and then - you know, to keep things exciting. It's usually at really inconvenient times - like, at church, or when I'm changing him in the backseat of our car. But, eh, what're you gonna do. I'm even starting to predict better when he's going to poop - which is usually right after he's eaten. I'm this close to buying him a baby potty to see if I can get him to go in there. You know, for funsies.
Oh, and considering Shawn was a diaper-changing virgin before Eli came along, he has become a master of changing diapers since. That is, when he isn't being a tight-wad and doing everything he can to conserve our diaper supply. He hates wasting diapers. Which, I suppose I can appreciate. What I don't appreciate is holding my son, suddenly feeling super warm, and realizing a little too late that I'm being peed on because my husband tried to TAPE the kid's diaper shut after the little velcro thinger ripped off. A little tip? Just get a new freaking diaper.
And with that, I'm going to go ahead and wrap up this episode of everything you've ever cared (or not cared) to know about my not-so-tiny-anymore human.