The Truth About The Poop

So we started solids (if you can call veggies that have been pureed to a liquid state, “solids”), and that’s been fun. Carrots are awesome. Peas, not so much.

And there were side conversations, and quick comments, and lines dropped about diapers and bowels.

Things like,

“Those diapers are going to start looking different.”

“Just wait until he’s eating real food.”

“His poops will start to change.”

These are vague statements, and I get that no one wants to jump into a detailed conversation about baby poop.

But words like “start,” are straight-up deceitful.

Words like “start” – as in, “… start to change …” – imply degrees and gradations and process. “Start” implies a beginning, a middle, and a Finish.

There was none of that.

For any other first-time mamas out there, here’s what really happens. Here’s the truth no one is actually telling you.

First, the schedule changes without warning.

Every baby’s bowels are different. Mine would shoot out a little of that sweet-smelling, yellow, breast-fed baby poop a couple times a day. His BFF regularly goes for days between poops. That’s cool. They’re both healthy and growing.

But one day we mashed up some avocado, and the pooping stopped.

And the second day, he had more of that avocado, and the pooping continued to stall.

Then, evidently when you’re not looking, a grown man – clearly some sort of ninja – sneaks in, steals your baby’s diaper, defecates in it, and reattaches it to his butt.

Because I don’t care how long it had been since his last poop, there is no way my cute, little, six-month-old produced that. That. 

His torso is not large enough to contain all of that at one time. You’re asking me to bend the laws of physics in order to agree that all of that just came out of this baby. And with hardly a fuss or a sound from him.

If anyone else produced a pile of poo the size of his own head, the person in the next stall – shoot, everyone in the building – would know about it. I’ve been with the kid all day, and I’m telling you, he didn’t so much as grunt.

And no, it didn’t start to change. It wasn’t a little bit darker in color. It wasn’t a little stinky. It wasn’t a little thicker, and there wasn’t just a little bit more of it.

It was 45-year-old man poop, mashed up as a function of being pressed against his butt. It was brown. It stank to high heaven. It didn’t easily wipe away with one moist towelette. Or two. Or three.

And of course he rolls now. Constantly. Hates being on his back ’cause he’s got places to go. Poop or no poop.

And did I mention he found his penis about a month ago, so every time the diaper comes off, he instantly wants to check on it. Of course.

Rolling. Grabbing. Poo ninjas.

I’ve called for back-up at least once. Husband casually entered the room like it was no big deal, until the aroma hit his nostrils, and he saw what we were dealing with. Then, then he sprung on his first born like a murder suspect – pining his hands to the table, alternately drawn to and repulsed by the scene.

(The Meatball thought this was all very funny that time. So in addition to the writhing and the mountain of man-poo – now smeared on his legs and feet – we were both laughing at the baby laughing, while Husband pleaded, “Ewww … Stop laughing!”)

No one really prepares you for that moment. Until now. You’re welcome.

Bonus Tip: I used to think that the little strap, with the plastic buckle, on the changing pad was to keep them from rolling off. But if you bend his arms, hands to the shoulders, and get that strap right across his chest, it moonlights as a great restraining device. Then all you have to deal with are the twisting hips and the piles of toxic feces that someone snuck into your baby’s diaper when you weren’t looking.