One day I was changing then three-month-old Owen's diaper. Grasping his ankles in my left hand, I had his butt hoisted up when suddenly, he pooped. Which means he squirted, with truly awesome explosive force, as liquid-fed little babies tend to do. The brown goo went flying across the room, splattered against the wall, and then dripped down into the laundry basket below--the laundry basket containing all the freshly washed, just folded clothes.
I reacted as I always do in any crisis: badly. I thrust my hand toward his bottom in a ridiculous, completely futile attempt to block the flow. Instead, I succeeded only in diverting a significant quantity of the liquid shit onto the baby and me.
Dripping in excrement, I looked down on my fecal-flecked son. Who then peed. And, since he's a boy and since I had left his peeing instrument uncovered, the piss went sailing in a graceful arc, straight into my face and my open, aghast mouth.
My son looked up at his sputtering, gagging, urine-soaked and crap-coated mother. And laughed, that amazing straight from the core belly laugh that only a baby, delighted with this new world and all its wonders, can pull off.
Burbling over the changing table, Owen's laughter embraced me and through the piss streaming down my face and the shit dripping off my eyelashes, I laughed back. And we laughed and laughed and laughed until Owen got the hiccups and the poo dried to a crust on my cheeks.
All of which highlighted Three Important Truths:
1. Children will hit you with an amazing amount of piss and shit (actual and metaphorical).
2. Probably the best response is to take a few steps back. Nevertheless, I will, invariably, unfailingly, thrust myself right into the shit stream.
3. In the end, there is laughter.
Or else, you're really fucked.
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