PetersCreek
Codger-in-training
- Joined
- Jun 17, 2005
- Messages
- 753
While we Alaskans were recently herfing it up with him at our B&M, the subject of Moki's impending entry into the Fellowship of Fatherhood came up. He explained that he had it all figured out, about he and his wife were going to divide baby duties based on their schedules. After a mild fit of laughter, I explained that there would be only one schedule: the baby's schedule. :laugh: During the conversation, I promised Moki a baby story and here it is, a true tale: the poop snake story.
Over on the other forum dedicated to the discussion of dogs, we'd somehow gotten into a discussion about poop. That's not necessarily a bad thing, of course, with it being a board about dogs. Dog lovers can be an odd lot and worry about such things with the best of intentions. How, exactly, it strayed so far from the defecatory habits of our dogs, however, I'm not quite sure. Suffice it to say that things went terribly, terribly wrong for it to lead up to the story I was prompted to tell then and am about share again with you now.
Disclaimer: The author strongly recommends that consumption of beverages be suspended during the reading of this missive due to reports that they may be inadvertantly spilled, inhaled, spewed, or propelled through the nostrils at dangerous velocities. The author accepts no liability for damages resulting from the spilling or spraying of said beverages onto computer monitors, keyboards, walls, yourself, other people, or your cigar(s); or resulting from involuntary loss of bladder control. You have been warned.
Pineville, Lousiana, ca. 1979. My daughter was just a few months old when she had an upset tummy. Not the runs mind you, but real soft and real often. My wife at the time--an ex twice over now--had an aversion to the really aromatic diapers, so it fell to me to do the doody duty. Now, these were the days when money was tight, so we were using good old-fashioned cloth diapers. You know, the kind the young folks look at in the Older-Than-Dirt Parents Museum. Every diaper change meant just one more diaper to wash.
There I was, in the middle of changing what seemed like the umpteenth diaper of the day. We didn't have a changing table, just a changing pad to use in her crib. The drill was: drop the crib rail, grab two feet and lift the little butt, slide the pad under, put the little butt back down, unpin the diaper, lift the little butt, clean the little butt, powder the little butt, slide new diaper under, put the little butt back down, and pin. (Optional: raise hands in air, get score from judges)
Well, this time, just as I put the new diaper under, my precious little girl gave a grunt and out came the poop...right at me. That's when everything started moving in slow motion. It was one continuous poop snake--the longest I'd ever seen--and gold--describing a perfect ballistic parabola through the air. It was magnificent. One part of my brain was thinking, "This is really cool!" Another part, in a high-pitched, sissy voice was squealing, "Don't get it on me! Don't get it on me! Dontgetitonmeeeeeeee!" Yet another voice warned, "You know, if you drop the baby's butt in that, you'll just have a bigger mess to clean."
So here I am, with the baby's feet in one hand, trying to keep her butt in the air without dangling her upside down, while attempting to dance out of the way of this flying poop snake. Up, up, and over the crib rail it goes, where it runs out of steam and collapses in a long rope-like mess. On the diaper. On the changing pad. On the crib mattress. On the crib rail. On the floor.
What does my poor little girl do? She laughs. Not the little "hehe" of mild amusement. Not the demure giggle of a cute little girl. It was that gurgly, squealing, exhultant laugh of sheer delight. It was a baby guffaw. An infant "LMAO." That's okay, though. In a strange way, I was proud of her. I mean, how many dads can say their kid pooped a snake?
Over on the other forum dedicated to the discussion of dogs, we'd somehow gotten into a discussion about poop. That's not necessarily a bad thing, of course, with it being a board about dogs. Dog lovers can be an odd lot and worry about such things with the best of intentions. How, exactly, it strayed so far from the defecatory habits of our dogs, however, I'm not quite sure. Suffice it to say that things went terribly, terribly wrong for it to lead up to the story I was prompted to tell then and am about share again with you now.
Disclaimer: The author strongly recommends that consumption of beverages be suspended during the reading of this missive due to reports that they may be inadvertantly spilled, inhaled, spewed, or propelled through the nostrils at dangerous velocities. The author accepts no liability for damages resulting from the spilling or spraying of said beverages onto computer monitors, keyboards, walls, yourself, other people, or your cigar(s); or resulting from involuntary loss of bladder control. You have been warned.
Pineville, Lousiana, ca. 1979. My daughter was just a few months old when she had an upset tummy. Not the runs mind you, but real soft and real often. My wife at the time--an ex twice over now--had an aversion to the really aromatic diapers, so it fell to me to do the doody duty. Now, these were the days when money was tight, so we were using good old-fashioned cloth diapers. You know, the kind the young folks look at in the Older-Than-Dirt Parents Museum. Every diaper change meant just one more diaper to wash.
There I was, in the middle of changing what seemed like the umpteenth diaper of the day. We didn't have a changing table, just a changing pad to use in her crib. The drill was: drop the crib rail, grab two feet and lift the little butt, slide the pad under, put the little butt back down, unpin the diaper, lift the little butt, clean the little butt, powder the little butt, slide new diaper under, put the little butt back down, and pin. (Optional: raise hands in air, get score from judges)
Well, this time, just as I put the new diaper under, my precious little girl gave a grunt and out came the poop...right at me. That's when everything started moving in slow motion. It was one continuous poop snake--the longest I'd ever seen--and gold--describing a perfect ballistic parabola through the air. It was magnificent. One part of my brain was thinking, "This is really cool!" Another part, in a high-pitched, sissy voice was squealing, "Don't get it on me! Don't get it on me! Dontgetitonmeeeeeeee!" Yet another voice warned, "You know, if you drop the baby's butt in that, you'll just have a bigger mess to clean."
So here I am, with the baby's feet in one hand, trying to keep her butt in the air without dangling her upside down, while attempting to dance out of the way of this flying poop snake. Up, up, and over the crib rail it goes, where it runs out of steam and collapses in a long rope-like mess. On the diaper. On the changing pad. On the crib mattress. On the crib rail. On the floor.
What does my poor little girl do? She laughs. Not the little "hehe" of mild amusement. Not the demure giggle of a cute little girl. It was that gurgly, squealing, exhultant laugh of sheer delight. It was a baby guffaw. An infant "LMAO." That's okay, though. In a strange way, I was proud of her. I mean, how many dads can say their kid pooped a snake?
