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It’s been a while since I’ve had a good post about poop, don’t you think?  Instead of just talking about poop for poop’s sake, though, I’m going to frame this as a tip for all parents of young children.

So, here’s your tip: If you buy your child a jumperoo, make sure you only put him in it after he’s had his first poopy diaper of the day.

Because you know what happens when a baby poops while bouncing in a jumperoo?  Do you?

I do!  Let me share!

The effect of a jumperoo on a dirty diaper can best be described with just one word: Squish.

And no diaper on this Earth can contain the force of that squish.

And you will immediately need to do laundry.

And your baby will immediately need a bath.

And you will be very, very lucky if you get through all of this without getting any poop on your hands.

So.  Use the jumperoo with caution, is all I’m saying.

This has been a public service announcement.

This is going to be a short one, because I’m too busy trying to catch toddler puke in a plastic bowl to write very much.

That’s pretty much my news for the day, actually. Kaylee’s sick, and it’s that messy kind of sick that means I now have to change the comforter on my bed and tomorrow I’ll have to break out the steam cleaner to deal with the carpet.

The mess isn’t such a big deal, though. What sucks is that Kaylee doesn’t understand what’s going on. All of a sudden she’s miserable and Mommy’s following her around with a plastic bowl. And, of course, Rob and I get to start the countdown until we get sick, too. Rob went out and bought us some Wendy’s for dinner and also brought back my favorite kind of candy for my dessert. Our conversation:

ROB: I wasn’t sure if you’d want to eat it now or wait a couple of days.
ME: I can’t decide. Go ahead and enjoy it, or wait until I’m sure I can keep it?

I guess from a calorie standpoint, I should eat it now.

Decisions, decisions.

Midnight – 2:30 a.m.: Our neighbor’s dog barks non-stop, after having been shut outside in the freezing wind. Rob and I theorize that the dog is just very, very excited about Christmas. We translate his barking as follows: “Santa? Are you there? Santa? Santa! I see Santa! No, that’s a squirrel. Have you seen Santa, Mister Squirrel? … Santa? Santa? Santa? Santa?”

3 a.m.: Kaylee wakes up, needing her pacifier put back in her mouth for the fourth or fifth time. Rob, exhausted from listening to a dog bark for more than two hours, helps her out, grumbling all the way.

3:45 a.m.: Kaylee wakes up about halfway, and I decide to give Rob a break by answering her cries. I warm a bottle for her, but she’s still half asleep when I go back into her room. I naively decide that she’ll sleep better if I go ahead and give her a bottle now.

4 a.m.: Projectile vomiting ensues. I am now drenched in used formula.

4:01 a.m.: Kaylee is officially and completely awake.

4:05 a.m.: After changing my pajamas, Kaylee’s pajamas and her baby blanket, we settle in for some playtime on her bedroom floor. I try to keep my eyes open while she claws her way to her feet by tugging on my clothes.

4:40 a.m.: I wrap Kaylee in a blanket again and try to rock her back to sleep. She stares at the ceiling and says, “La la la la la la,” in an effort to stay awake.

4:59 a.m.: Kaylee finally drifts off, and I go back to bed.

5:30 a.m.: Rob’s alarm clock starts beeping.

6 a.m.: I finally agree to get out of bed, and I discover several dried baby boogers on my clothes, presumably deposited when Kaylee used my shirt to help herself stand up.

7:30 a.m.: The gift opening begins. Kaylee is mildly amused at first, but quickly gets overwhelmed by all of the activity around her, especially the noise dogs make when they wrestle in a pile of wrapping paper. The whining begins.

10:15 a.m.: The whining pauses while Kaylee naps.

10:45 a.m.: The whining continues.

1:07 – 2:30 p.m.: The whining pauses again while Kaylee and I nap together. It is a glorious hour and a half.

4 – 4:45 p.m.: Whine, whine, whine, whine, whine. Scream, yell, whine, yell. Whine, whine, whine.

4:45 – 5:50 p.m.: Nap time again! Hallelujah! Merry Christmas!

8 – 8:45 p.m.: Nonstop, ear-piercing whining.

8:45 p.m.: Kaylee’s down for the night, and the world rejoices. Until she wakes up after half an hour, crying for her pacifier. And again 20 minutes later. And 30 minutes after that. And so on.

Ok, so I know I just made it sound like our Christmas was terrible. But really, it was just different from the visions of the ideal “baby’s first Christmas” that I had imagined. Kaylee had a runny nose, was fussy all day, and only briefly took interest in all of her new toys. (The Pound Puppy seems to have been a success, though.)

But for every upsetting and/or annoying thing that happened, there were at least two happy memories. There was Kaylee, smiling in her Santa hat and chewing on her Pound Puppy’s nose. And then there she was, squealing with delight at a stuffed Santa Claus doll that played Christmas music. And the giggles when her daddy threw her into the air, and the ear-to-ear grin during games of hide and seek.

When I think back on her first Christmas, I probably won’t remember the boogers and fatigue, but I’ll definitely remember that smile.

On Saturday, I dressed Kaylee in one of my favorite outfits for her: a onesie that says “little monkey” and has a picture of a monkey eating a banana. When I saw it in the store, I just had to buy it — even though I was in a Gymboree, where the clothes are much too expensive when you consider that the baby will grow out of them in 10 minutes. That’s how much I love this onesie.

So imagine my horror when I realized that, 15 minutes after I dressed her, Kaylee had a diaper explosion. And not just any diaper explosion –- a sick baby diaper explosion. That’s the worst kind, I’ve recently learned.

I had to call Rob in for reinforcements while I cleaned poo off her calves, thighs and back. I didn’t actually need him to do anything other than cheer me on, but his laughter was a nice counterpoint to my frantic chanting of “ew, ew, ew, ew.”

After I’d properly mourned the staining of the monkey onesie and sent Rob off to throw it in the washing machine, I dressed Kaylee in something else and started trying to forgive her for the incident.

Later, I carried her into our bedroom to talk to Rob, while I nuzzled her and pretended to eat her neck, face and head. Then I held her out to Rob and said, “Here, kiss your daughter.”

He gave her a peck on the side of the head, and then as I pulled her away, he said, “What is that on her head? … Is that poo? Does she have POO on her HEAD?”

I turned her around and there it was. Poop. Right there in her hair, most likely deposited there when I took her onesie off.

And Rob, sweet husband that he is, had one more thing to say.

“You really are going to turn her into the stinky kid, aren’t you?”

If my family were characters in a post-apocalyptic sci-fi/horror novel a la The Stand, Kaylee would be a survivor and the rest of us would be dead.

Because she was able to giggle and play immediately after episodes of Exorcist-style vomiting, Rob and I attributed Kaylee’s trouble last week to “air in the tummy” or difficulty digesting her new solid foods. We were wrong. Very, very wrong.

Kaylee apparently brought the superflu home from daycare, and she managed to pass it on to all of her Colorado Springs-based family within 24 hours. I never thought a 12-pound, 10-ounce little person could wreak that kind of havoc.

On Friday night, we had dinner with Grandma and Uncle Tim, and Kaylee exploded all over a previously clean eating establishment. On Saturday, we had a picnic with Gram, Papa, Uncle Jamie, Aunt Laura and cousins Hope and Evie, and there were no major bodily-fluid incidents.

By Sunday night, Grandma, Uncle Tim, Gram, Aunt Laura, Rob and I were all in the grip of a nasty stomach bug, and Papa was feeling kind of queasy.

That’s right. My baby took out four households.

And while we were all incapacitated with misery, she was bouncing in her Jumperoo, laughing her little head off.

I think I may have to saran-wrap everything in Kaylee’s room.

Kaylee almost always wakes up at around 3 a.m. and has a bottle before drifting quietly back to sleep. This is usually a rather uneventful experience: feed the baby, put her back in bed, the end.

Not so much the last two nights, though.

Rather than going right back to sleep, Kaylee’s bottle-drinking has been followed by a hiccup and then a shower of vomit. She hasn’t seemed to mind, really. She’s been in just as good a mood after channeling Linda Blair as beforehand, so I don’t think she’s actually been sick.

Kaylee may not have minded, but it was a bit traumatic for Rob. In two out of three spit-up incidents, he actually had to go take a shower because of the volume of vomit that had been dumped on him. The carpet in front of the rocking chair in her room was squishy, Kaylee’s pajamas were soaked, and the dog was in heaven.

You may remember that this is the week that Rob was scheduled to go out of town for work, but something came up and his company decided not to send him. This was disappointing in an aww-now-he-can’t-have-adventures-in-Virginia kind of way, but a relief in a now-Mommy-is-less-likely-to-go-crazy kind of way.

And thankgodthankgodthankgod he was here. Because a hysterical 3 a.m. phone call from his wife screaming, “I’M COVERED IN PUKE. GET ON A PLANE AND COME HOME RIGHT NOW SO I CAN TAKE A SHOWER!” probably wouldn’t have helped him achieve maximum productivity.

I’ve been off work for the past few days, so this is kind of old news, but I feel it’s important enough to share anyway: Last week, Kaylee gave me two wonderful birthday presents. On Thursday, she laughed at me for the first time – a real, happy, Mommy-you’re-hilarious laugh. This made my day, even after she threw up on her “I love Mommy” shirt.

The second one was almost as good, even if it was a couple of days late. On Saturday, Rob dressed her in her new “Apple of Daddy’s eye” onesie, and she pooped on it the first chance she got.

What a good girl.

What a good, good girl.

I took a big risk this morning.

In honor of my 29th birthday, I decided to dress Kaylee in a new “I love Mommy” onesie. As soon as she was dressed, I sat her down and we had a little talk about how important it was that she not throw up all over her nice shirt.

I’m pretty sure she was listening intently, even though she was staring at a ceiling fan. Here’s hoping her shirt makes it through the day.

UPDATE: She managed to make it through her entire school day without spitting up on her clothes … and then she threw up on them at home.

Immediately after Kaylee was born, I felt a need to buy clothes for her that glorified her parents. I’m not sure why, but it may have been because I was so tired. I probably thought, “Well, I’m exhausted and cranky, but I’ll feel better about parenthood if I put her in an ‘I love Mommy’ onesie.” And then to be fair, I had to buy a “Daddy” one, too.

Here’s an inventory of the parent-praising clothes Kaylee owns:
• “I love Mommy” onesie
• “I love Daddy” onesie
• “Perfect, just like Mommy” onesie
• “Daddy’s little princess” onesie
• Two pairs of “I love Mommy” socks
• Two pairs of “I love Daddy” socks

The first time I put Kaylee in her “Perfect, just like Mommy” shirt, she pooped on it about 30 minutes later.

All right, I can take that. It’s nothing personal. I mean, she’s just a baby. Plus, I got the stain out easily enough.

Then, a couple of Fridays ago, she spit up on the “I love Mommy” onesie at daycare. When a baby erupts there, protocol is to put soiled clothing in a red bag labeled with a biohazard symbol (!!) and send it home with the parents. But Rob, having never been made aware of spit-up protocol, didn’t realize he was supposed to take the red bag out of her bin, and the clothes were left over a weekend to ferment, sealed tightly in plastic.

I can’t be bothered to do laundry more than once a week, so it wasn’t until Sunday that I took a good look at that Mommy-worshiping onesie and realized that it had decided to grow some hair. Tiny little dark-green spots had sprouted on the shoulders, in the middle of all the crusty grossness.

Disgusted as I was, I decided to make a go of cleaning it, discovering only that baby laundry detergent doesn’t stand a chance against that kind of ick. Mentally humming a funeral dirge, I dropped it in the trash can.

“It’s ok, though,” I thought as I headed back to her room. “She still has the ‘Perfect, just like Mommy’ onesie, so that one can boost my ego.”

I took it out of the closet to gaze upon its cuteness – and there, right on the shoulder, was a dark formula stain. Not enough to keep me from putting her in it, but enough to make the “Perfect” statement on the front kind of ironic. Darn.

Plus, I think one of her “I love Mommy” socks is missing, kicked off in the middle of Target somewhere.

But her Daddy clothes?

Don’t you worry. They’re all pristine.

Grrrr.

Some of my friends never want to have kids. When asked why, they usually cite the gross aspects of parenthood. They don’t want to deal with the poop, the pee and all the other fluid-filled adventures. When people decide to become parents, they decide to accept these unpleasantries with the knowledge that their adorable progeny’s love and cuteness will more than make up for all the messes.

What new parents might not realize, though, is just how far a baby can fire his or her bodily fluids. For example, I didn’t know that a peeing baby girl could clear a changing table with her urine stream, earning the honor of becoming the first family member (including the dogs) to pee on our new carpet.

A few days ago, our happy family was gathered together on the couch, watching TV. I was holding the baby, trying to teach her how to stand up, in the hopes that she can make it into the Guinness Book of World Records as the strongest baby ever. It was a happy moment. It ended quickly.

Suddenly, Kaylee exploded, spitting up all over my chest. This was the very first time in my life that I’ve experienced the feeling of vomit running slowly down the inside of my shirt. And let me tell you, there is nothing quite like the feeling of warm vomit pooling in your belly button.

Naturally, I immediately handed her off to Rob so I could clean myself up. We both assumed our volcano baby was finished erupting.

I was in our bedroom changing clothes when I heard Rob saying, “Oh God, oh God. What do I do?”

I looked up to see Rob coming down the hall, holding the baby out in front of him while she sprayed the carpet, the wall and generally everything else within a three-foot radius. It was amazing. I didn’t think she could have that much formula in her.

And behind Rob, our dog Kody followed with glee, cleaning the carpet with his tongue.

Which leads me, finally, to my point: All parents should own dogs, for cleaning purposes.