School’s out. This allowed me my first day at home caring for all three boys. No more dropping off Big Brother at kindergarten and spending my day off work juggling just Buster and New Baby. Now, we’re all in it together.
Though I do okay on my Mr. Mom days, we have our moments when things tend toward chaos.
New Baby likes his milk. He takes the bottle well, which is a giant boon to the father-infant relationship. After the bottle, he paints his diaper with his love of milk. This is a good thing; the system works – until it works too well.
I was holding him on my lap when I heard the first rumblings. Before I could react, the rumblings grew into a swelling tympani roll of flatulent evacuation. All of my facial orifices gaped wide as I realized there was no escaping an epic blowout.
For those within the radius of total destruction, there is no point in running.
In horror I watched the goo rush up a gap in the back of the diaper. Like magma under volcanic pressure, it shot up the crevasse and spewed into the air. There was no hope for my clothes. I understood this and was resigned.
But we were sitting on the bare couch. I like my couch.
I’ve been peed on, spit on, puked on . . . but now that I’ve caught flying poop, I can truly say I’ve lived.
Diving to catch a poop-fly before it falls in for a base shit.
I threw myself under the airborne globules and hugged my little poop grenade close, taking the brunt of his ick-splosion on my chest and lap. This wasn’t a little staining squirt. It was a flowing stream. I used the dry leg of my pants to sop the drenched leg so none would run onto the couch.
I was a human skid mark, but I saved the couch.
I rushed New Baby to the changing table, behind the couch. Laying him on the table inspired Buster to climb up the couch and offer assistance in pulling open the diaper tape. Since he could hardly touch this diaper without collecting a handful of carnage, I swatted Buster’s fingers away. With my other hand I unfastened the diaper and popped open the box of wipes.
The first wipe only spread the mess. I dropped it into the demolished diaper and blindly reached for another as I concentrated on keeping New Baby from wallowing in his own muck. My hand swept the space where the next wipe should protrude from the box, but came away with air. I swiped lower and hit the barren top of box. I plunged my finger into the box, and was rewarded by hard resistance from the bottom of the empty container.
Nooooooooooo!!!!
Holding New Baby by his ankles, and blowing puffs of air at Buster to dissuade him from lending a hand, I rooted around beneath the table and found a new package of wipes. Getting it open was a moment of parental genius sublime beyond description.
Absorbent reinforcements at hand, I finally made headway against this pooptastrophe.
. . . on Daddy.
Sensing an opportune moment, Big Brother approached with his favorite question. “Daddy, what can we play?”
I invited him to follow my eyes as they surveyed the crapressionist art that was my front. “How about we play Nobody Poops on Daddy for the Rest of the Day? Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“That’s not a real game.”
He’s right. It’s not a real game. It’s merely a happy dream I visit when I’m feeling optimistic about the near future.
Snoozing on the Sofa 
You are a great father, bro. There are certain things, some of us just won’t do. Or never had the misfortune of having to do.
I bow to your tolerance, patience and skill in handling this poop-a-thon. Hat’s off!
Maybe lay of the milk a little…
I’ll give him as much milk as he wants and deal with the consequences. From experience, I’d rather have one who loves taking the bottle than one who hates it.
I remember picking up Cherub by holding his shoulders against me, and lifting his legs AWAY from me and then running to the bathroom after his explosion had dripped down the highchair and onto the floor.
I stuck him in the bath, stripped him off and hosed him down with the shower.
Far far easier.
You may want to remember that one.
Much respect for protecting the coach, though!
It is far easier to wash my clothes and myself than the couch or the carpet. Plus, I have to go up stairs to get to the tub. I’d rather sacrifice my clothes than run the risk of leaving a trail through the house. I’m happier believing that all those carpet stains are just spilled grape juice.
I guess we all react differently to crisis.
Ah, no, the way I picked him up, it all ran back up his trouser leg. Definitely NOT leaving a trail. Ewww.
But hosing him down was definitely easier than trying to wipe!!
I can’t argue with hosing. It even sounds better.
I don’t understand why more parents don’t do it, to be honest. I get funny looks sometimes when I suggest changing an exploded nappy in the bath but it worked a treat and Cherub was happy enough about it…
The way you sacrificed yourself for that sofa … way to take one for the family team!
A dad does what a dad has to do.
Humiliation and poop – they are always make for such great humor. Thanks. (I was going to ask if you were pooped from taking care of the kids, but that felt so cheap.)
I’m glad you didn’t lower yourself to that level by asking such a thing.
Before I was a dad, I was holding a new baby (I have no idea why), but the poor kid started to drool, I nearly tossed the kid on the couch to avoid getting slimed. Two years later I had become so dulled to body fluids that I looked forward to good clean drool.
If I end the day with a few drool stains on my shirt, it means I’ve had a good day and am feeling pretty fresh and clean.