Ella turned seven months old on Saturday…but don’t let this cute picture fool you.
I watched her Saturday afternoon as Anne-Laure shuffled Theo between two birthday parties. Be warned, the following story is not for the prudish.
Ella awoke from her nap bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and wanting her bottle. I picked her up from the crib and we moseyed to the “get fat” chair to enjoy warm milk and College GameDay (bless you, ESPN America). As Lee Corso was picking the game winner, a pungent odor filled the air that can be best described as roadkill blanketed in burnt cheese. I scanned the room for dead animals before realizing that the stench stemmed from my little girl. Somewhat dizzy and definitely nauseous, I stumbled with Ella to her room for a new diaper.
The changing procedure – often referred to as the “poopy pants to shiny hiney process” – is usually a no-brainer. Today was different. When I undid her body and the soiled slip, I witnessed something that goes beyond scientific explanation:
There was the no poop in the diaper.
Confusion flooded over me, followed by a wave of fear. While screeching violins echoed in my head, I slowly rolled Ella over…
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!
Her entire backside was covered in excrement.
Covered may not be a strong enough word. It literally looked as if she had fallen into a mud puddle…twice. I quickly began removing her underclothes. This was not as easy as it sounds. As I gradually pulled the body over her head, the garment acted as a “poopbrush” changing my little girl from a sweet perfect picture into a sick feces fresco. I stared in horror as my coffee-colored child began flopping around spattering brownie bombs all over the corner of the room.
I grabbed Ella and rushed to the bathroom. Unfortunately, she was too slippery and I had to keep readjusting my grip, though we only had to stop once en route to the tub (thank you Camp Tuscarora for honing my greased-watermelon-carrying skills). I ran the bath, lathered Ella and soaked her for a bit before rinsing off. A sigh of relief was heard as the last of the auburn-colored water departed down the drain.
I dressed Ella (in our room, not hers), changed my shirt and threw the clothes in the washing machine. Ella wiggled on her play mat while I crept back to her room to total the damage. As I surveyed the mess, my initial thought was to pull a Ripley a la Aliens and torch the place. But I knew this wouldn’t go well with the neighbors or the insurance company. Normal cleaning methods would have to suffice.
After bleaching her room (and simultaneously increasing Clorox’s stock by 4%), I grabbed a much-deserved beer and returned to the “get fat” chair. Popping the cap, I gave a nod to my little girl. “Happy Seven Months, Ella.” I said. She giggled and glanced at me with knowing eyes that seemed to say “I can make you do anything I want.”
Then to drive the point home, she farted.
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