YOU LITTLE SHIT
Besides being a round-the-clock milkmaid, the other skill I’ve mastered is a shit cleaner.
Everybody poops. Especially babies. Especially my baby. He is so good at it that I was hoping in 18 years they might have a scholarship for shitters. The Syracuse Orange Men’s Shitting Team. He is an Olympic shitter. It is him versus the diaper and the diaper loses almost every time. Everything loses. We’re currently going for a new record at day care of how many days in a row my child can come home in different clothing than he arrived in. Last week it was 3 out of 4. This week we’re already 1 for 1 and I’m hopeful for the rest of the week. Because there’s nothing, I mean nothing, I love more than cleaning shit out of clothing.
I guess I kinda deserve it since I enjoyed 9 free months of not cleaning the cat litter.
Originally the problem seemed to be the lack of height on the back of the diaper. The force would propel off the bottom of the diaper and right out the top, leaving the top of his pants and the entire back of his onesie covered in crap. Usually this would happen when he was sitting on someone’s lap because it’s truly no fun if other people aren’t also covered in shit (sure I’ll clean Mimi’s pajama pants and your clothes too kid.) In hopes of preventing this occurrence, I found diaper extenders that attach to the back of the diaper to add another inch or so and thwart the back explosion. These worked for a while even though he would never go while I had them on and always go when I forgot to use them. Figures.
Now that I’ve blocked that pathway, the crap has outsmarted me and started coming out of the legholes. I have no recourse. You win shit, you win. If I can’t prevent you, I must treat you. And so far I’ve only lost 2 patients.
The first was while we were in Peddler’s Village in Pennsylvania for the day with my parents. After feeding, we waited a couple of minutes before putting him back in his car seat. Suddenly I felt something wet, looked down, and his white onesie was no longer white. My mom and I raced into the (luckily private) bathroom and devised our panicked plan to remove his shit-soaked outfit over his head without getting it all over him. It’s like a bad game of Operation. We took one look at that formerly white onesie and promptly introduced it to its new home, the garbage can.
Snaps have gaps. Therefore snaps don’t contain craps.
The second was just the other day while he was finishing his cereal wearing a snap-front footie pajama. To my horror as I sped upstairs to the changing table, crap started escaping the gaps in between the snaps on the legs. This was a 4-alarm shit. The brand-new sleeper our neighbor gifted us got wrapped up in the doggy wee-wee pad crap package and tossed right in the trash.
Everything else I’ve somehow been able to revive through a combination of Oxi clean, a brush that’s original intent is unknown and sheer determination. Because I clearly have nothing else