Splat

If you are offended by talk of bodily functions, you’re going to want to give this one a miss.

Still here? Poop! Barf! Not fazed? Good. On with the show. Two stories:

1. Just in case, I have an old priest and a new priest on speed dial.

Maggie is exclusively breastfed, but none of the laxative powers of breast milk seem to have affected my wee one. She is a heavy and frequent wetter, but up to three or four days will pass where she…will not. And then at the end of that time, a torrent. A torrent with the hallmark buttered-popcorn smell of newborns, but on steroids. It stings the nostrils.

Today was the end of one of those four-day stretches, and thank every higher power that Tom was on diaper duty because oh holy hell. This was what William Friedkin envisioned when he directed The Exorcist. This was Satan’s brew, the poo of a sulfuric demon capering in a pink ruffle-butt onesie and held valiantly in check by a Thirsties cover that I swear was beginning to smoke. This what the unbelievers will smell during the end of days.

It was grim, is what I’m trying to say.

I have described the contents to Maggie’s pediatrician and she (and more importantly, The Internets in the form of Dr. Google) is unconcerned by my description. Apparently she is less given to hyperbole than I. At any rate, I am to file this one under “Human Baby, Individual Characteristics of,” and move on. But if you had asked me four months ago if I knew–really, really knew–how much crap a human baby could hold, I would have told you yes. And I would have been wrong.

2. It was a lot funnier when Lucille Ball tried it with the knives.

Maggie likes to spit up long after feedings, so everything is nice and curdled. There is also no real window of safety, so I can let her lie for a long period of time and think I’m in the clear, lift her, and end up with a shirt filled with infant hork. To preserve my sanity I choose to believe this is her way of saying “Hey, thanks for all the sacrifices you made for your career and the household finances so I can have boob time whenever I want.” This generally works. Generally.

The other day I lifted Maggie and held her at arm’s length from my body, about an hour and a half after a feeding. Sometimes I like to tone my shoulders, and she is my willing dumbbell. I was executing a slow lift when a rumble of baby spitup came flying out of my innocent angel’s mouth. It coated my face, my hair, and my shoulders.

As it happens, I was standing in front of our closet door. Due to our landlord’s somewhat questionable taste, the sliding doors of the closet are mirrored. I went to change and came back to discover that the shape of my upper body outlined in baby vomit had patterend the mirrored glass of the closet door like a scatological Jackson Pollack. A Dairy Dada, if you will.

Ahh, motherhood. To be covered in so many foul substances, sometimes even before you sit up in bed for the day.

And to love it, every last squishy second. Because how can you not love this face?

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