Saturday, October 23, 2010

Daddy's Peak

I believe my son to be the Mount Vesuvius of baby poop. His pants clearly are the Roman city of Pompeii. I will try desperately not to be too graphic. Many of you parents may have a dootie volcano of your own, but to those of you who either have no children or whose children were born with a “elimination system” of moderate proportion, you haven’t a clue as to the eruptions some of us have experienced. I’m not referring to stink. That is a completely different beast that I think no diaper-changing victim ever avoids. Even those who are convinced their own pooh doesn’t stink are quite convinced that their offspring were passed over in that genetic trait. Once the tiny humans dabble in non-milk like foods its “watch out olfactory nerve, war has been declared on our nasal passages”, and stink arrives on your door step, prepared for a long stay.
No, I speak of eruptions of such velocity and volume that they obliterate the “no leak” seals of the most advanced diaper technology and turn your baby’s wardrobe into Rorschach blots of brown. Fortune blesses you if the mini Mauna Loa was someplace other than in your arms or to the laundry goes your favorite golf shirt, the one you shot your best round ever in. Worse yet is during the diaper change. We’ve all heard the cute little stories of baby boy getting his diaper changed and suddenly springs a leak while mommy or daddy tries to stem the flow by covering him with another diaper. I am here to tell you that there is more than one orifice down there and only one word comes to mind when thinking of what that orifice delivers; splatter.
There must be some sort of scientific miracle that is present in my son’s digestive tract that will one day revolutionize closet storage. I believe it is something akin to the Space Bag (as seen on TV). Food enters the digestive tract at a certain volume. It is compressed like in a vacuum storage bag, but unlike adult elimination systems, upon exit it returns to an equal or greater volume than its original state, and is accompanied by an accumulation of compressed air. This forces the doo-doo (parental technical term) out the tiny orifice creating thrust and the aforementioned splatter. As eruption continues, the individual battling the “magma” flow quickly becomes aware that even Pierce Brosnan couldn’t abate this natural disaster. So, perhaps FEMA on the speed dial was a good idea, and just wait for the disaster cleanup crew to arrive.
It could’ve been worse. You could’ve been wearing your favorite toga, enjoying some “adult” entertainment, when your entire city was decimated. For now, it’s just your clothes, the carpet and your ego, which I believe covers the majority of what’s always at stake in child rearing anyway.
Ahh, life at the base of an active volcano.

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