I now have concrete data on which to base the answer to my question: I’m raising a monkey-boy.
I neglected to replace Will’s pajama pants this morning after his 5 AM diaper change and feeding, figuring that his room was plenty warm enough to allow for avoidance of the hassle incurred by trying to maneuver toddler legs through skinny pantlegs and thus placed him back in his crib with his sleeper top and a diaper on. Hours passed and, just as I was about to hit the road for work, I heard him stirring up in his room and decided to check in and say goodbye before I left. As I rounded the corner to his room, I was hit with a wave of very strong eau de poo de bebe. Gagging, I thought “Whooo! Smells like a big one!” Upon entering the room, I was confronted with two facts:
- The poop itself was of a quite normal size.
- It’s location and disposition were of a singularly non-normal description.
Yes, my son, my pride and joy, had removed his soiled diaper (which he threw over the crib’s rail, sans poop) and had apparently been staging some bizarre incarnation of Toddler Wrestling Theater wherein he executed body splashes off the “top rope” of his crib into a pile of, well… doo doo. My wife immediately bolted for the shower and I proceeded to haul my son out of his crib using the Parents’ Straight-Armed Baby Carry Useful For Keeping Goo Off One’s Clothes and plunk him into the shower, after which I spent an entire hour Lysoling everything that might have remotely been touched by my child.
He’s never going pantsless again. I don’t care if he’s a 28 year old Marine drill instructor at Paris Island – I’m going to ingrain the necessity of clothed loins in him, most assuredly. Fortunately for him, I kindly declined to take any pictures of the chaos that had resulted from his actions (think: CSI: crime scene, only less red and more brown) so that I cannot be tempted to blackmail him the first time he brings a date over.
Ain’t parenting fun?