Little Stinker

Even through all my crunchy ways, I have not yet been converted to the superior green-ness of cloth diapering. I finally have a washer and dryer in my apartment, so I can't use that excuse any longer. (And, even with my aversion to vaccines, I still buy the vaccine-supporting Pampers, simply because...I think they work best with me and my baby. I am a selfish mother.) Maybe someday I will brave the cloth diapers, but as for now, I deal with throwing away all the baby poop.

For all those mothers who breastfed for any amount of time (past meconium, that is) you know what that poop is like. Incredibly runny, yellow, and "what the heck is he eating that makes those little curds?". There once was a time when I didn't realize I should wait until I heard at least 3 poop squirts before changing Bug. This was a time when all those hormones were making me crazy. Well, I guess that is all the time, so never mind that. Bug had most likely just finished a meal, and he began to fill his diaper...as most breastfed babies like to do immediately post-meal. I smile and cheerfully place him on a changing mat (I can find no place or point for a changing table in my apartment) to fulfill my duty as mother and change my little guy's bum. I remove diaper, with one squirt size of poop in it, and I am wiping those plump little cheeks when I receive squirt number two...directly into my palm-up, wet-wipe holding hand. Surprisingly, I was able to laugh about it. I got both myself and Bug cleaned up and put a fresh diaper on the baby. Now, I can proudly say I have joined the ranks of surviving mothers who have been pooped on. It is a honor I bear with respect.