adventures in excretion, ii

Grip loves to take a bath. You can tell because he gets that thinking-really-hard look on his face as soon as he goes in the water. As much as he loves being in the water, though, he loves the aftermath even more: being dried with the blowdryer. We put it on low heat and point it at him and he gets absolutely still — and stays that we until we stop. If he’s capable of looking forward to anything, this is what he looks forward to.

One problem, though: the combination of bath-induced relaxation and warm air on exposed genitalia tends to yield spontaneous urination. After a few experiences with this phenomenon, I had learned my lesson. The other day, after his bath and prior to the blowdryer treatment, I laid a cloth diaper over the relevant parts. He loved it like always, but didn’t pee, so I figured he was just empty.

You can see where this is going.

After I put the blowdryer away I picked him up so I could put his bathrobe down on the counter under him. (It might be relevant to note that I was entirely naked too at this point.) I was holding him against my chest with my left arm and carrying the bathrobe in my right when I noticed that increasingly-familiar warm sensation cascading down the front of my body.

Always, when being urinated on, there is a moment of panicked indecision about the proper course of action. I don’t know why – -it’s just not something you have a built-in reaction to; you have to think it through, and the time-sensitive nature of the situation makes clear thinking difficult. So anyway, for a moment I just stood and let him pee on me.

I decided then that I needed a free hand to deal with the situation, so I tossed the robe over into the bath, where it would be safe. With one arm free, I sidled awkwardly to the sink, leaned my body (and the kid) over it, and attempted with my right hand to direct the stream of liquid into the sink. Just when I thought I had achieved some modicum of control over the situation, BWAAA… a huge, explosive poop. Breast milk poop, nearly bereft of solid matter, cascaded into the sink, briefly glancing off Grip’s happily kicking feet.

This is what military types call a “rapidly evolving event theater.” I was holding a wiggling child with my left hand and aiming a small penis with my right; I had no further appendages suited for useful deployment. After briefly assessing this new development, I decided that there was no shame in summoning reinforcements. That’s when I started shouting “Help! Help!”

The cavalry (Mom) arrived shortly, bearing a warm washcloth and an aptitude for thinking quickly. Feet and bottoms were cleaned, diapers applied, children wrapped in robes, pee toweled from torsos, excretions rinsed from sinks. Parenting: it’s not just a job…