So, a while back I registered on the Huggies (and others) website so I could get diaper coupons and stuff, although we ended up switching to Pampers, then realized how expensive those are and said "Screw you Pampers, Walmart brand it is!"
Anyway, so of course you put in your baby's birthday and all that, so they can send you emails periodically about things pertaining to your little bundle of joy's age group. For anyone who doesn't know, he's now 14 months old.
Well I just got an email from them and the subject said "Is it time for your baby to move up to a size 4 diaper?"
HA! HA HA HA!!!!!
Oh Huggies, your naivety is so adorable. My baby has been in a size FIVE diaper for the last six months or so. My baby is a future linebacker and your puny size fours are laughable to parents like my husband and me. He would look at a size 4 diaper and probably wonder if it's supposed to go on his leg. Or, if he were capable, he would probably say, "What is this, a diaper for ants? Are there really babies my age that are this small?"
And speaking of diapers...let's talk about baby poop. No, really--let's. This incident actually happened a few days ago, but I was too traumatized by the event to write about it the same day. I think I'm ready now...
It was a normal Saturday morning. My child had a dirty diaper. I discovered this while laying on the couch when he crawled to me and started climbing up right on top of me, and I realized that the air I was breathing was suddenly filled with a dreadfully familiar poop pollution. He was climbing all over me, giggling away, pulling my hair, slamming his head into mine and causing me to say very colorful words very loudly in front of my six year old, you know, the usual charming things babies and toddlers do. I managed to free myself from his grasp and got off the couch, then turned to pick him up so I could change his terrible smelling diaper, and then I realized that his dirty diaper had, well...exploded.
It was all over his back, on my couch, on the pillow I was laying on, and I could feel that it was on the back of my shirt too. The box of baby wipes was nowhere to be seen and I started yelling "WHERE ARE THE WIPES??!!" as if this would make them appear before my eyes, but I was becoming more and more traumatized by the minute and got a little panicked. My husband, who had previously been asleep in our room, suddenly emerged wondering what the hell was going on. Luckily HE knew where the wipes were, since he was the one who had left them on the dining room table the night before (ahem), and brought them to me. Then HE saw what the hell was going on and understood exactly why I was yelling and took over from there. He went to clean the little darling off, I started the bath water (otherwise we would've used an entire box of wipes on this one), and then went to change my shirt which did, in fact, have poop on it. Before I could even remove my shirt, however, I wanted to put my hair in a ponytail because my hair is very long and I was afraid it would get in the mess on the back of my shirt. As I was doing this, I realized...there was baby poop in my hair. And then of course on my hand since I had my hair in my hand.
I have never wanted to cry about baby poop before that day. I can deal with it if it gets on my hand (still gross, but hey, it's motherhood, we all have plenty of hand soap and anti bacterial spray and gel and whatnot), or on the floor (especially now that we don't live in a carpeted home - much easier to clean it off of wood floors than out of carpet), and I wasn't even all that grossed out about it being on my shirt or my pillow or my couch. These can all easily be washed. But my hair...ew.
Now yes my hair can easily be washed as well. But there is just something about having your son's (or anyone's for that matter) CRAP in your own HAIR that just, well, makes you want to vomit and cry at the same time.
All in all, I think I handled the situation fairly well. And everyone I've told this story to has found it very humorous, but let me tell you something. It was NOT humorous at the time. Funny parenting story now, life-ruining tragic event as it was occurring.
Do you have any similar stories that are just as disgustingly traumatizing as this one? If you're ready to discuss them (I understand if you're still shell--I mean, shit-shocked over the experience and unable to discuss it), feel free to comment and tell me your story. We can commiserate (and laugh/cry/puke) together.