Not For the Faint of Heart

But then neither is parenting. Still, if you're particularly squeamish, you may not want to read this entry.

Last week, I walked into the living room to find Ben standing there, stark naked. It was hot, so he'd just been running around wearing a diaper. Apparently the weight of its wetness combined with a lack of stretchy sides on the Target diaper he was wearing caused it to fall clean off of him. He was so cute standing there, and I figured it was either just one of those things that happens once in a blue moon, or that I need to start buying the more expensive stretchy-side Huggies or Pampers if he's got the power to cause them to fall off just by peeing in them.

An hour ago, he was standing in the kitchen with a little shirt and his diaper on, and I noticed the diaper was loose on one side. I figured I'd better grab it and get it back on him before it completely fell off and we had an unplanned fountain. So I step forward and grab the diaper, just as it falls off of him. I decide I'd better just go put a new diaper on him, when all of a sudden, I realize there's a strange on my toe. I look down, and there's poop sitting on it.

Apparently when I stepped next to him and grabbed the falling diaper, it was precisely timed with the release of a bowel movement, which handily fell on my toe. Disgusting, and yet part of me was just glad it didn't splat onto the kitchen floor.

This is why parenting is not for wimps.