Oh Crap...It's Here

My son Jackson was born 12 days early, but "he" is not the "It's" that I refer to in the title of this, my second blog. Rather, "It's" refers to the shit-river my little play-doh fun factory expelled from his bowels earlier this afternoon. You see, one of the fun things us fathers learn about babies is that during the first few days of a baby's life, it only poops a little bit of this black substance called meconium. This black tar smells only a bit, but it is harder to get off of the skin then an ass tattoo of Yosemite Sam.

If the mommy chooses to breastfeed, a few days after the birth, she starts to produce milk. I know, dear reader, what you must be thinking. If the mother is breast-feeding, what the hell is coming out of the breast for the first few days, Kool-Aid? It is actually a substance called colostrum, which is meant to hold baby over til supper; a four-day snack if you will. I had no idea either.

Anyway, sometime around day four or five, mommy's tits become at least three times the size they were on your first date. Don't get excited gents, as they are useless to daddy at this point; doctor's orders, nothing in the vagina for six weeks. No, these boobs are the milk sacks of the nurturing mother, delivering the life giving flow to the eager mouth of the little angel. Sounds beautiful, and it is, until the life giving flow becomes the chocolate river from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory.

At approximately 4pm, I was relaxing in my recliner with baby Jackson on my lap resting away. There was a slight breeze in the air, and I could hear the soft chime of an ice cream truck ever so slightly singing its song in the distance...and then it happened.

I looked down and noticed a single brown polka-dot on the waistline of Jackson's baby blue onesie. Oh my God, it's SHIT! Do I get excited or do I panic? Nicole is in the shower, and although I had changed a few meconium diapers over the last few days, this was totally different. For starters this "new poop" has no respect for the authority of a diaper. Christ, if he is going to shit right through his friggin clothes, why the hell do we have to spend so much money on diapers. I might as well just dress him in his clothes and keep the washing machine spinning all day.

I brought him into the nursery and plopped him down on the changing table. Interestingly, this was the first time Jackson didn't cry on the changing table. He had this strange look of pride on his face. Similar to the look Barry Bonds had in his record setting 2001 season when he hit his first home run. A look that says, "Get Ready Folks, You are in for a lot of this shit."

I proceeded to grab the little spud's ankles like a chicken at the butcher to lift his ass right up off the table. Novice that I am, I don't use the soiled diaper to begin the cleaning process, and wind up using about a thousand baby wipes to move the shit slime all over his ass, legs, hips and back. Eventually, my ever-so-patient wife arrives on the scene, no doubt in haste due to her belief that although I am not groaning and screaming, I am still a man, and useless in the baby ass-cleaning department. Upon her arrival, I shifted to the side to hold the little tykes legs high over his head, allowing room for her to finish the job.

We both quickly learn that the penis of a five day old child does, in fact, expel piss with total disregard for the gracious parents who lovingly scoop pools of brown goop away from the delicate bundle of joy to which it is attached. We are also made aware that just because there is enough feces on the diaper to make the strongest stomach wretch, does not necessarily mean the anus will cease the expulsion.

Despite the foregoing, shit scene, I must give some credit to Mr. Brown Eye, as he is certainly a gentleman. When the last drop of pudding hit the diaper he made sure to say "thank you," with a well timed sphincter rattling fart. Don't mention it my little aristocrat. You are very welcome.