poop

Having a baby has really changed the way I feel about things that used to gross me out.  Poop, for instance, has ceased to make me squeamish.  Well, at least my son's poop.  If poop makes you squeamish, you should probably not read the rest of this post.  It's not for everyone.  I was giving my son a bath this evening, when he unexpectedly shat in the tub.  IN the tub, DURING bath time.  Full-on poopy mess.  I had to take him out of the water, drain the tub, wash the tub, wash his little bath mat recliner contraption, refill the tub, and give him a whole new bath all over again.  Sounds disgusting, right? Wrong! It's really quite amazing, but my little guy's poops don't bother me in the least.  Dave has taken to calling me "the poopsmith".  Changing diapers does not set off a single ick sensor.  I am immune, and I find this fascinating.  Dave, on the other hand, holds his breath every time he's on diaper duty, handling the wipe like it's a mysterious, time-sensitive explosive.  He happened to be paying us a visit in the bathroom when this all went down, and he somehow managed to escape in a puff of smoke before I could even yell at him to help me instead of just standing there, watching me like I was an unfortunate character in a special private screening of some horror movie.  "That was gross," I heard him yell from somewhere on the direct opposite end of the house.  (He's breathing over my shoulder now, forcing me to explain to you that he was late for hockey and had to run.)  Anyway, I was struck by how not gross I thought it was.  Actually, I thought it was adorable.  Never in a million years would I have guessed that shit, in any capacity, could ever give me the warm fuzzies.  But there it is.  You have yourself a little one, and you're suddenly so in love that he could literally barf and shit all over you, and you just chuckle and pinch his cheek.