I thought we were past this. I really thought, dreamed, hoped this was a thing of the past.
I thought you were constipated, given the hard little nugget you let out while we were at Miss Rachel's house. I gave you raisins for lunch.
I thought you'd pooped while you were eating lunch. When I picked you up and felt your butt and there was no lump, I figured you hadn't. I figured the unholy stench emanating from you was just gas.
When I put you on your changing table and started to undress you and your shirt stuck to your back, I knew I was in trouble. I realized there was no lump because the poop had defied gravity and gone all the way up your back. How... how did it get all the way to your shoulder? I don't know why you were crying in the shower. You were getting the poop softly sprayed off of your torso with warm water. I was trying not to hurl.
I'm going to go spray your bathtub with bleach and throw your outfit, your socks, your changing table cover, and myself into the washing machine.
You're seriously gross.
6 comments:
HAHAHHAHAAAA! sorry. ick.
Your son has anti-gravity poop. There's a Dan Aykroyd movie in there somewhere.
My story involves a 6-year-old, a public restroom and footprints. And one-ply toilet paper.
I'm trying to imagine Ace reading this post ... at age 16. Eek!
Yeah. We used to measure the severity of the diaper by the number of wipes it took to clean it up. The worst was a nine-wipe diaper.
You don't want to know.
and he's laughing at you....
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