Because It Isn’t a Mommy Blog Without Talking About Poop

Cordy is sick. Last night, she had a blowout diaper right in the middle of Once Upon a Child (local resale shop). I thought it was a one-time deal, and she seemed OK when I put her to bed last night.

This morning I woke up to the sounds of her crying. Now, her morning routine generally involves waking up happy and singing/talking to herself in her crib for awhile, so this turn of events struck me as ominous as best. (WARNING, those with weak stomachs may want to skip the next few paragraphs.)

I walked to her room and opened the door, and before the door was open more than a crack I knew there was no good coming my way. The smell. Oh god, the smell. Sour milk mixed with a sewage facility mixed with toxic waste. I braved the foul odor and went towards the crib. There was Cordy, still in her one piece PJs, but completely wet, sitting up sobbing. I turned on the light to better examine her, and realized she was covered from neck to toes in goopy poop. Her diaper had put up a valiant fight to contain it all, but had failed miserably. The mess had exited that region in all directions, in the front and in the back.

(As a side note here, isn’t it funny that once you become a parent, you suddenly can classify all of the different types of poop out there? Something you never gave much thought to before is now one of your expert fields of study. It’s like we’ve become poopologists – we can judge a child’s health simply by the size, smell, and consistency of their poop. From this morning’s coating of poo, I can tell you Cordy is ever so not well. Watery, light yellow, and a smell that would make a skunk gasp.)

I carefully lifted her under her arms – one of the few non-soiled places on her body – and holding her at arms length, carried her to the bathroom. Yes, I carried my crying child at arms length. I love her dearly, but I was not about to hold her diarrhea-covered body against me. I do have some self-preservation, you know.

Aaron was taking a bath at the time, and his bath was rudely interrupted by the poop show. He got out and refilled the tub for Cordy as I took on the task of stripping her sleeper off of her. This mess must have exited her body sometime in the night, for it was dried in places, making removal of the sleeper all the more difficult.

Oh god! I said as I saw her skin underneath the cotton. Her body was covered in a red rash from where the higher concentrations of poop had settled. Some areas were just a little red and blotchy. Other areas were dark red and starting to welt. We quickly got her into the bath, and I decided to join her because she was still crying hard and wouldn’t let me go. It was clear how dehydrated she was – our little chubby brute actually looked gaunt standing in the bath.

After the bath, we took her downstairs and tried to calm her down. We rubbed her down with moisturizer and diaper balm, then quickly put a new diaper on. She wasn’t appreciative of our efforts. A little TV therapy worked, though, and soon she was glassy-eyed watching Jack’s Big Music Show. (Thank you, Tivo!!) She drank two sippy cups of juice and water, and ate a few bites of waffle. Another blow-out diaper then followed.

The next step for me was dealing with decontaminating her room. I went back to the scene, but had to quickly leave when overpowered by the scent. I wondered if haz-mat teams make house calls, or if we could at least borrow a haz-mat suit. Don’t we have some Oust somewhere? Aaron asked. No, we’re out, I replied, I’ll find something.

The only thing I could find was a pocket spritzer of Eucalyptus Spearmint pillow mist from Bath & Body Works. Good enough, I figured, and walked back into her room spritzing away, like some police officer fighting criminal smells with my pocket spritzer handgun. All of the toys, blankets, and sheets went into the washer. I wiped down the mattress just in case, and put fresh sheets on it.

The remainder of the morning was spent watching Playhouse Disney with Cordy on my lap. While I normally don’t let her watch too much TV, she’s sick and doesn’t want to play, so I’m happy to help her forget that she feels so bad. This kid never wants to cuddle, so if she’s spending an extended amount of time sitting with me, I know this isn’t just a little bug.

She’s currently upstairs napping, and I’m crossing my fingers that I won’t find any more toxic surprises when she wakes. Cordy hasn’t been this sick in a long, long time. It’s hard to see her feeling so bad, and knowing I can do little to help. Changing her diaper is the worst, because in trying to help her (cleaning her off and applying cream) it causes her pain, which in turn makes me feel awful.

Isn’t it amazing that when our kids are sick, we have an inborn ability to shoulder that pain right along with them? If I could, I would gladly take all of the bad she’s feeling onto myself so that she could feel better.

PS – Aaron is currently at his interview – thanks to all who are sending him positive thoughts!