3 poopy nappies into the day and my nostrils of suspicion are working overtime. Especially on a toddlers day - who wants to be the one with the stinky kid? I don't remember being scarred by stinking as a child but maybe I was. Breastfed poops aren't even that bad but I do find myself still trying to sniff them out. I wasn't especially afflicted with cravings or aversions in pregnancy, but seem to have developed the super sensitive nose since the munchkin arrived. I spent the first few weeks trying to work out if my section scar smelled, and unless you're some kind of yogi I'm not sure smelling your own belly is possible, then last week it was the boobs, and I have a regular fear about the house and go around sniffing like a bloodhound, and my nose is telling me fatherhood has made el papa smell worse. But I think it is just the super nose. Which by the way is a crap superpower, unless I could get employment as a sniffer human, I'm not sure I'd outperform the canine candidates though.
And then, 3 poops in, or a thousand poops inn, if we're going from the beginning of mum time, they stop standing out. Like in the beginning there were the horrifyingly fascinating ones the black green gunky lava, the sticky ones, the day they turned yellowy, the seedy ones, we've checked them all off from the "how often should my baby poop?" google image list, and while everyone else seems to be worrying about not enough poop ours is coming thick and fast. That worry when you catch a live action one, and thank God that you got laminate floor in the bedroom instead of carpet, the assault missile fart-poop that's like an angry little baby warning to hurry the f**k up or the literal shitis going to hit, well, everything.
I was pretty impressed the day I was changing her and the fart poop travelled as far as my knee, a good 12", and have nearly ducked for cover at the first sign of a sneeze or a fart when the nappy is off ever since (the mum sense of needing to hold on to the baby on the high changing mat only just overrides the reflex to get out of the way of proot propelled poop). Then one day as I side stepped a particularly angry, mid change tantrummy fart, out flew the poops and travelled well over a metre - to be fair with the benefit of being at about waist height on the changing mat, with a decent trajectory and maybe a little extra firepower with me holding her legs up, but holy crap, is that kind of fire power normal?!
And as they all kind of mingle into one big endless poopy bum change I start to be struck by deja poo...the assault missile situation described above has taught me to wait - poops don't often come in a singular event, there might be two or three in quick succession, so we sit it out for a moment. But then sometimes in the midst of something else I fear I've been distracted. I remember a poo...did I deal with that poop? When was it even? Minutes ago? Hours ago? Is the one I'm remembering actually one that happened yesterday...are we in an ongoing poop situation? I think it's maybe the baby-brain dementia, the sad side-effect of the fun bits of getting to stay at home. When your life is reduced to a series of poops interspersed with a bit of smiling, chatting, cooing and singing made up nursery rhymes (to get the rhyme and rhythm they inevitably go a bit off course, a bit of rudeness peppered with swears and gore, that doesn't have to stop till she's speaking right?) it becomes hard to tell them apart, in the monotony of the baby poo world deja poo has me nearly constantly on edge.
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