I've been going back through the archives of The Daily B and pulling out some favorite posts to share. The following is from January 2008, when B was just a few months old. Enjoy!
It's one of those things that makes us human: I poop. You poop. Paris Hilton poops. Babies, unfortunately, have no control over their poop. Which is why at 11:15 this morning, I heard a distinctive low-decibel rumble and quickly found my daughter covered head-to-toe in it.
Sure, diaper blowouts are a normal part of parenting. Just toss the outfit in the laundry, dunk the kid in the bathtub and all is well, right? The thing is, this blowout happened during a playdate at a lovely woman's home--the kind of home that looks like it's never seen a diaper blowout--leather couches, flat-screen TVs, white carpet. The toddler has her own inflatable jumparoo castle in the basement, the 4-month-old wears lace, hair bows, and tights. I already felt a bit out of place. Then, my Carters-clad kiddo lets it all loose...smiling and cooing all the while.
Note to self: Pack more wipes in the diaper bag. Also could use a new bottle of hand sanitizer and more plastic bags.
I tell Kris about the adventure and we discuss the etiquette involved in your kid pooping at a fancy friend's house (do you throw the bag of used, poopy wipes away there or bring them home to your own trashcan?). He notes that he's proud of Bronwynn for being herself. We don't want her to feel undue pressure just because she doesn't have her own jumparoo castle and prefers cotton over lace.
The bottom line? You know you love your child when she's covered in shit and still looks cute to you. I didn't take a photo, because I was, well, busy. I'm sure you'll thank me for that anyway.