The Sprout is (knock wood, throw salt over shoulder, sacrifice to the gods, etc.) an extremely mellow and easy going baby, which is a good thing considering the major conniption fits her older sister is giving me lately, but last night she got me but good in a manner that demanded to be blogged:
So all the houseguests have gone to bed, the Hatchling has finally quieted down and gone to sleep, and it’s just me and Mr. Squab waiting for the Sprout to settle down so we can go to sleep. I figure I’ll change her diaper so she’ll feel all nice and clean, so I put her down on the sofa and get started. She’s had a terrible diaper rash so once the, um, area is all prepared, I get some ointment out and lean in to make sure I apply it in all the correct places. I’ve applied maybe 1/2 of the salve when the Sprout … well, I’m not sure what to call what she did. Projectile shitting? A shart? The unholy marriage of gas and excrement? You get the idea. Did I mention how I was leaning in at the time? Yeah. You don’t know from bad parenting moments until your infant child has SHOT LIQUID POOP ALL OVER YOUR FACE. And yes, my mouth was open, since you ask. “Thank god you had your glasses on,” was Mr. Squab’s response (after running into the kitchen to get paper towels and water to help me clean up).
I tell you what, there is no way to prepare for something like that. But you can be damn sure I’m keeping my distance in all future ointment applying situations.
