I've always told myself that I would never blog about my children's bowel habits. After all, junior high is hard enough without written evidence of bathroom indiscretions. And I'm sure that by the time Emerson and Connery are in junior high, kids will be able to download all relevant material into their Google BrainPan and use it against each other willy-nilly*.
That said, I can no longer keep silent on the subject of Emerson's butt. Put simply, she is the baby equivalent of John "The Biscuit" Cage from Ally McBeal, but instead of a fresh bowl, she likes an open diaper. She showed this proclivity early on, waiting to unleash her furies all over the exam table at her first pediatrician's visit at five days old. She has continued apace. When we stayed for a week in Great Falls, she hit the door frame from a good four feet away.
Her favorite trick is to let us get her all cleaned, balmed, and very nearly re-diapered and then do her extra business. The most immediate result of this little trick is that the fresh diaper is ruined and we have to get another one. (Don't you realize every one of those diapers costs 27 cents? We could have started a college fund by now!) Truly it pains my Scots-heritaged heart to waste diapers in this fashion. I can often be heard moaning softly by the changing table as she merrily sneezes and soils simultaneously.
Don't tell me to wait longer after feedings to change her. Believe me, I've done--and I do--that. Yesterday I waited some 45 minutes and included copious amounts of tummy time to move things along, but it wasn't until the diaper was opened that she chose to use it for what God intends diapers to be used for. And while I'm fast, I'm not usually fast enough.
There is one saving grace. While Emerson is like John Cage, her butt is like the Fire Swamp from the Princess Bride. Let me remind you of the key section:
"What are the three terrors of the fire-swamp? One, the flame spurt - no problem - there's a popping sound preceding each. We can avoid that."
I'm not going to call it a popping sound, exactly, but there is a noticeable noise preceding most of her, uh, flame spurts. Still, when the noise is heard, one has only seconds to react. And usually those seconds are consumed by groaning and rolling my eyes heavenward because it's impossible to move the fresh diaper out of harm's way.
*Welcome, potential suitors! Please ignore this entry, as I'm sure by the time you're reading this in 2024 just before you plan to ask Emerson to Space Prom or whatever it is you have these days, we will have gotten this problem firmly under control. Honest.