My kid just went #2, and it was so incredibly foul-smelling that I told him I don't love him anymore. Seriously, this shouldn't even be called a #2, this was more like a #50. Whatever we fed him yesterday is now officially banned from our home until the end of time. In fact, I'm considering not feeding him anymore, period. See, I've made careful notes on this subject, and I've come to the conclusion that there seems to be a direct correlation between food going in and poop coming out. I'm no dummy.
I have never been one of those people who finds toilet humor all that humorous. I am mostly just embarrassed by the whole subject, and have probably never made reference to fecal matter more than a handful of times in my whole life, and probably always with a really prissy look on my face. Recently, that's changed. Once you have a baby, suddenly your whole life begins to revolve around the subject of poop. I am certain that my husband and I have never once had any discussion prior to Jake that made mention of doo-doo in any way, yet now we sit around discussing it daily, as if discussing the weather. In addition, I have become a Poop Detective, constantly on the sniff for signs of trouble. Sometimes the situation is so dire that it is instantly apparent that my services are needed; the smell hits you like a fecal fog. Other times, I have to pick the happily playing baby up and hoist him in the air as I wave my nose near his diaper, collecting olfactory evidence. At such moments, I have my suspicions, but I'm hoping against hope that my instincts are wrong. I'm sure it's something akin to how a homicide detective feels when he's looking for a body--he's looking for something that needs to be found, and if he finds it he'll feel some satisfaction that his job experience and his intelligence led him to his target--yet he can't help hoping he doesn't find anything, because what he's looking for is something no human would ever wish to contend with.
So naturally, I did my duty and fought the enemy that was lurking inside that war-torn diaper. As it stands, his derriere is clean enough to eat off of--if you're, uh, really, really hungry, and if you can come up with a reasonable explanation as to how food ended up there in the first place. All in all, his backside smells as fresh as a summer day. But I know it's only a matter of time before God will test my love for Jake again, and will smite us with a diaper so full and so foul that I will stand at the changing table and shake my fist at the sky, shouting like King Lear...or, uh, Denis Leary, for those of you who don't read Shakespeare.
Now I ask you: Who would ever guess that behind this sweet face lies an ass that's capable of such mayhem, such pure evil?