Jake was laughing and trying to grab at each thing we passed. We be-beeped into the kitchen, where I took a glass from the cabinet and was in the process of filling it with water from the refrigerator door water dispenser when I shifted Jake a bit on my hip to get a better grip on him. "Hmmm," I thought. "That's strange." My arm, the one supporting Jake's back, felt wet. How could that be? Any time a baby is found to be wet, it's a good bet that he's peed himself--but pee has a tendency to present itself on the baby's front, not on his back. That's when I was hit in the nose by a rolling wave of mystery-solving stench.
I hastily set down my water glass and took a gander at my son's back. What I found there cannot be described...but lucky for you, I'm handy with a digital camera. I galloped to the changing table and plopped my filthy progeny on the floor so that I could prep the area for the hell I was about to unleash upon removal of the diaper. Here's what the shameless little Pig Pen looked like.
How did he manage this? This is not the first time he has defied gravity and crapped upward, but each time it happens, I question the laws of the universe. To answer the most obvious question, no, I certainly did not hang him upside down from a shower curtain rod, nor did I tip his crib at an incline and put him to sleep head-down. In my house, we have a strict "upright baby" policy which dictates that we strive to keep him head-up and feet down, unless he's laying down. In that case, we tend to keep him level, with his head at approximately the same height as his feet. That's just the way we roll. At the time of The Incident, hereinafter referred to as The Crap Carnival, Jake was, in fact, standing upright in his Exersaucer, watching cartoons and blithely gnawing on a plastic fish. He looked quite normal, even innocent, and gave no hint that he was even then performing a modern-day miracle and crapping skyward.
If you're foolish enough to be asking yourself why I set the putrid little fellow on the floor instead of just putting him directly on the changing table, then you don't have an accurate idea of what I was contending with. While my changing table was no doubt specifically designed to handle a certain amount of poo, it was simply no match for the scene I knew was awaiting me in and around the general vicinity of that diaper. What I needed was one of those power hoses they use at the zoo to bathe the elephants, but I was forced to make do with the inadequate tools I had at my disposal. I deposited Filthy McBaby on the floor while I grabbed a towel to cover the changing table with, as well as several hundred baby wipes and a clean diaper. In hindsight, I should have taken a few quick swigs from a bottle of Wild Turkey as well, but that's a lesson learned. I'll spare you the details of the scene that unfolded next, but suffice it to say that I'm currently undergoing treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At the end of a grueling, protracted struggle, I came out the victor, having finally restored my son's derriere--and his back--to their formerly pristine condition. Here's proof that beneath the thick coating of feces, an actual human child existed:
In a completely unrelated matter, I have a onsie (size large), a pair of navy blue infant sweat pants (size 9-12 months), and a large green bath towel that I will generously give for free to anyone who wants them.