Poo volcano

It was Sunday morning. I’d somehow woken up before E, so I wandered into the kitchen to take advantage of a free moment and eat breakfast. Just as I was finishing my bagel, I heard E grunting from the nursery, so I headed in to feed her. C had already heard her and was putting her down on the changing table to get her into a fresh diaper before nursing, so I sat down in the glider and started gathering my supplies.

The next thing I remember is hearing a big squelching sound and looking up to see a brown liquid fountain shoot from the changing table across the room and splatter down the wall.

That’s right. We started our day with a massive projectile poop explosion. It splashed all over the wall and the carpet. It landed in a gift bag full of new clothes from grandma. It splattered on the white window curtain and got all over the changing pad and LR herself. It was horrifying.

And hilarious.

But mostly horrifying.

C and I both froze, but E started screaming immediately. After a second or two, I ran to the bathroom to grab wash cloths, and C took E's pajamas off. Then I grabbed the babe and C started in on cleaning up the mess. E was hungry, so I wiped her down and fed her while C scrubbed the wall and the carpet and removed all the poop-covered fabrics from various places. All the while I was wondering whether I should laugh or cry—both seemed like equally viable options.

The mess got cleaned up eventually (and, because C is a saint, I didn’t have to do it), but I’ll never forget Volcano Sunday and the spectacle of a fountain of yellow/brown poo arching past C to land on everything in a three-foot radius. Well played, little one. Well played.

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