What Not to Do When Your Baby is Covered in Poo

It’s Babyland here in the Blackjack household.  And if you were to ever visit such a crazy place you’d discover it’s full of poop.  Poop in the morning.  Poop in the evening.  Poop at suppertime.  Sometimes it’s brown.  At other times it’s another shade of brown.  And in some rare cases it can be yet another shade of the color brown.  It’s runny, it’s slimy, and sometimes it slips out the sides.  It gets on your hands, it gets on your shirts, and, yes, it can even get on your nerves.  It’s poop!  And while I’ve had my unpleasant run ins with the stinky stuff, nothing holds a candle to what my dad did to me thirty-two years ago.

If you ever wanted to know the worst possible thing you could do to a child covered in poo, follow me after the jump.

Before I get into the details, please keep in mind that I have absolutely no recollection of this incident.  I was two and still a few years shy of my first lasting memory:  that of my precious Donald Duck kite flying off untethered into the gray Washington sky.  My dad tells this story, however.  All the time, in fact.  And the worst part is, he’s actually proud of it.

Damned if I know why.

It was a time where my mom was out of the house.  Since I have no siblings that left me alone with my father who, apparently, had not spent a lot of one-on-one time with me up to this point.  As a result he was ill prepared to deal with the situation I presented him with:

I was covered in poop.  Lots of it.  I don’t know how it got out but it did and I was an ungodly mess.  Poop poop pooooop poop POOP!  Presented with this my dad had a few options.  Most, I would hope, were reasonable and sane.  One, however, was NOT.

Which one do you think he chose?

So on the shower water went, spraying happily from the nozzle.  And in I went, naked as the day I was born, upside-down, held by the ankle by my loving and caring paternal unit.  Down the poo went, from my legs, to my torso, and onto and into my eyes, nose, and mouth.

I screamed the whole time, says my father with a mischievous smirk when he tells the tale, and I can’t imagine why.  Maybe it was the poop in my mouth.  Or maybe it was the poop in my mouth.  Or maybe, just perhaps, it had a little something to do with THE POOP IN MY MOUTH.

I’m less scarred from this as you might think, actually.  It is, after all, a pretty amusing yarn.  If this was my first memory, instead of losing poor Donald in the gloomy skies however, I might just feel differently on the matter.  Regardless, take these words and heed my warning:

When your child is covered in poo, don’t put it in his mouth.  Take it from me.

Thank you.

–Cap’n Blackjack