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Dirty, dirty
Dirty, dirty

Dirty, dirty

Karen over at PediaScribe is hosting a contest about your dirtiest story. My life has been crazy enough that I’m just now getting to this (yeah, it ends this afternoon), but I had the perfect story come screaming to the forefront of my swiss-cheese memory the second I read of this contest.

A was a newborn. Five days old, in fact. This meant I had not slept in five days. Not just because I was a new mom, with all that comes with it (episiotomy, milk coming in, hormones all FUBARed), but he seemed ticked off that he had been born and wanted to share that irritation with the entire condo complex. Because Tom had a new job (a new career, far from teaching) and it was his busy season, he was already back at work. Yes kids, I got exactly a day and a half from my husband when A was born…and that half day was because his computer crashed and he had to go get my mom from the airport. But I digress. I was sleep-deprived and a mild wreck, Tom was back at work, and I had an infant who not only hadn’t read any of the What to Expect When You’re Expecting (aka what to fear and loathe when you’re expecting), but was hell-bent on proving every baby book wrong.

I was tired. I was sore. I was confused. I felt like I had been thrown into some sort of alternative universe and would never be allowed back.

Just setting the scene here. It lightens up.

As I said, A was five days old. I remember that clearly, that’s how much this event scarred me for life. I took him into our bedroom to change him. Remember that I had a wicked episiotomy (the o-ring inflata-pillow was my bff for several months). We changed him on the floor; no room or money for a changing table. So I spread out a yellow towel (ain’t it amazing how much detail we remember when something big happens? LOL!) and laid my teeny-tiny son on it. I pulled up his little bag o’ nightie, undid his onesie, and removed the itsy-bitsy diaper.

And all hell broke loose.

My son, my first-born, the love of my life…turbo pooped with a force like that of a jet launching from an aircraft carrier. Five-day old baby turbo poop over me, over him, over the yellow towel, over the carpet the towel wasn’t covering, over the linens on the bed next to me, and over my scarred and tired psyche.

I screamed and laughed and gibberish came flowing from my mouth, trying to get Tom and my mom in the room as backup.

But A wasn’t done. After the turbo poop explosion came a perfect arc of little boy pee over me, over him, over the yellow towel, and over my scarred and tired psyche.

Time slowed. I’m still trying to scream my mom and husband into the room for backup; I was frozen, covered in warm and gooey fluids and nearly hysterical. I could hear them coming, they just weren’t coming fast enough.

And still A wasn’t done. After his display of bodily functions (hey mom, check this out!) came a perfectly formed and all-boy fart, the exclamation point on the events that had just transpired.

I believe he had a smile on his face; don’t tell me five-day old infants don’t smile. This kid was proud of his display and he smiled in pride, relief, and joy. And that, my friends, was my introduction to having sons; not sure I’ve recovered, six years later.

Whaddya think?

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