What a Crappy Day. . .

. . . and I mean that in the most literal sense of the term.

I must have the two poopiest sons in the entire world. Truly. I don't know how in the world two children this small can produce this much feces in a 24-hour period. And we're not talking a little turd here and there. No. . . we're talking diaper blowing, back-creeping, sting-the-nostrils calliber craps here.

Let me start with Pudge. . . my 3-month old. Pudge (and no, his real name is not Pudge. It's Christian. . . but if you'll kindly take a look at the photo in this post, you may see why we call him Pudge) tends to blow out diapers at least three times a day. There are times that the velocity in which poop comes out of his tiny-hiny truly startles me. . . like this morning.

During his morning feeding, Pudge stopped taking his bottle. This is not typical Pudge behavior. Removing a bottle from this baby's mouth before every drop of its contents are safely in his belly is a huge no-no. . . and he will certainly tell you about it. So, when he stopped taking his bottle, I became concerned. I thought maybe he had a locked up air bubble and needed to burp - but he wasn't crying. When I moved him to burp him, I saw his face turn a light shade of red. . . and I saw "the look."

(For those of you who are not mothers, let me quickly explain "the look." "The look" is the face your child gets when he or she is about to make a mess in his or her diaper. I've noticed that all babies have different looks when this is about to occur. . . and when you see "the look," you should prepare yourself to change a stink bomb.)

"The look" only lasted a moment. . . he pushed as if he was trying to push out some gas, and then I heard an awful sound: "POP!" The sound. . . the horrible sound. . . was the sound of the back of his diaper exploding under the force of the poop that literally shot-gunned out of him. What did Pudge do? Stopped pushing and went back to eating his bottle. Yep. . . one push, one "pop," and he was good to go. Mommy on the other hand? I was completely and utterly shocked and grossed out.

This is the second time this has happened in the morning this week. Yesterday, he actually shot me with his poop. Yes. . . shot me. I was changing his wet diaper. . . he passed gas. . . and that gas was quickly followed by a shot of liquid matter that landed all over my hand, the changing pad, and the wall.

Throughout the rest of today, I believe I changed five poop-filled diapers. And every time, Pudge simply smiled at me. . . that silly smirk of his. . . as if he was saying, "Aw, thanks for wiping my butt Mom. Since you like it so much, I'll see if I can muster up some more for you to clean up later." And he never fails to deliver. . .

And then we come to Julian. Julian will be three next month. . . we are in the middle of potty training, and he's doing extremely well in the first department. But when it comes to Department Number Two, he's lacking in the are of control. Now, the moms out there who have boys (and maybe even some with girls) will understand: when a toddler is playing, he or she does not want to stop to go to the bathroom. They'd much rather do their business in their pants and have Mom take care of it later.

My darling toddler has no qualms about telling me just that. Last night I put Julian in the bathtub and started folding some towels in the hallway. (Note: my linen closet is right outside the bathroom. . . he was in my sight and earshot the entire time.) All of the sudden I hear a little voice say, "Mom. . . there's dirt in the bathtub."

I walked into the bathroom and casually glanced down into the water. There - floating around my clean child - were some unwelcome visitors. Visitors that seemed to have escaped from Julian's rear-end. Yes. . . Julian pooped in the bathtub. (I had nightmares about this for the first two years of his life. . . of course he does it as soon as I stop thinking about it!) I grabbed Julian from the tub, placed him on the potty, and proceeded to clean (and clean, and clean, and scrub, and clean) the bathtub.

Once I was certain I had removed every poop particle possible, I asked Julian, "Why did you poop in the tub? The toilet was right here. . . all you had to do was tell Mommy you had to go." What was his response? "Because I wanted too. I was busy with my toys."

Today, my favorite little hurricane was riding a little train around my parents' house. On his third lap through the dining room, I heard my sister say, "Okay! Who pooped?" My nephew - Luke - is always completely honest and said, "It wasn't me." So, my sister turned to Julian. . . who was sitting on his train, smirking up at her. Needless to say, he was off the train within seconds and swept into the bathroom for a huge clean-up job.

I don't know what this child could have possibly eaten. . . I don't know how he could possibly hold that much feces in his little body. . . but oh my, was it a mess!

After five Pudge diapers and this one monsterous Julian diaper, I chalked today up as one of the crappiest days on record yet. I don't doubt that this won't be my last. . . but I do have a question: do they have corks for this kind of thing?

Wait. . . that's probably not a good idea. At the speeds Pudge is able to shoot his poo, a cork could likely turn into a deadly weapon.

Oh well. . . until next time. . .

Hurricane Julian

Call me crazy (you wouldn't be the first), but I didn't think hurricanes hit the Midwest. But I found out today that my assumption was horribly, terribly wrong. Now, I'm not referring to your normal hurricane here . . . no high winds, sheets of rain, or uprooted trees. In fact, you may be surprised to hear that the damage caused by this hurricane was confined only to my home . . . in my living room. And that hurricane's name is Julian.

Yes. My two-year-old, cute-as-a-button, blond-hair-and-blue-eyed miracle child has turned into a half-pint destruction machine.

Let me explain.

Julian is generally a wonderful child. He's happy, he's smart, he's cheerful, he's funny, and he's charming. The child I got out of bed this morning was not. From the moment this miniature version of my husband hit the living room, he was on a mission . . . a mission that involved terrorizing the dog, bouncing off the furniture, tearing down the blinds, throwing the remote controls, pulling the DVD cases off the shelf, attempting to pee on the bathroom floor (a plan that Mommy quickly foiled), and trying to hang-glide with a blanket off the sofa. Oh, and this was all within the first hour he was out of bed . . . at 8AM.

I am not the disciplinarian in our family. That job is typically left up to my darling husband; however, based on our current living situation (and by that I mean the continent between us . . . leading to the ocean between us . . . for the next year), I have taken on the role of "Big Mean Mama."

My first attempt at nipping the destruction in the bud was to send him to his room. Have you ever had a toddler laugh in your face and accuse you of bluffing? As of this morning, I have. When he realized I was not bluffing, he then told me that I'm "unfair" (a term he learned from watching Charlotte's Web). Less than a minute later, I heard him playing with his toys . . . which I then had to take away (because what kind of punishment is a "time out" if you can sit in your room and play?) . . . and placed him back on his bed.

His next move surprised me greatly. In fact, almost 12 hours later, I'm still having a difficult time trying to decipher how exactly it happened. I turned away from my resident hurricane, only to have him leap onto my back. Mind you, this child is in a twin bed. I am five-foot-nine. He was hanging on my shoulders. Attempt now - if you will - to picture how this could have possibly happened.

That little acrobatic move sent me into "Really Mean Mama" mode, which ended with a swat on the butt . . . some tears . . . and an apology. All from me. Yes. After I tried (again) to discipline Julian, he decided it would be funny to smack my hind-end and mock my attempts at making him behave. I - being the tough cookie that I am - broke down into tears of frustration. And as if that wasn't enough, I then apologized to the little maniac for trying to make him behave.

(Three days down. Only 362 to go.)

After the tears, I sat Julian down for lunch. He ate, and actually began to calm down. I was beginning to think that I may be catching a break (four hours later). Shame on me for thinking. Once his food digested, he decided to tell me he had to poop . . . and then run away from me in order to avoid going to the bathroom. While changing his diaper, he decided it would be funny to try and run again, causing his baby-sized "nuggets" of feces to fall onto the bathroom floor. (Did you know poop bounces if it's the right consistency? I found that out today as well!) Once I had that mess cleaned up, I did what any self-respecting mother would do when faced with a terrorizing child . . . I called my mommy.

Grandma's are great. Especially when they bribe your child with ice cream, bring said ice cream to your house, feed it to said child, and then leave. I'll give her some credit though, Julian was calm for the 15 minutes she was here. But the moment Mamaw left, Hurricane Julian hit with all his fury . . . destroying what was left of the living room, and successfully traumatizing the dog.

Thankfully, as hurricanes do, his power eventually subsided. I cleaned up the ruins left behind by the my tiny natural disaster, and then I decided to take advantage of the "eye of the storm." I picked up the car for a little trip . . . to Grandma's house.

Let's recap today's lessons:

• Hurricanes are entirely possible in the Midwest . . . if you live in a household with a toddler.


• Toddlers are capable of mind-bending acrobatics when hopped up on pure evil.


• No matter how "child friendly" you think your home is, your child will prove you wrong.


• Poop bounces.

And finally, the biggest lesson of all: grandmas are more evil than toddlers.

Again I say . . . three days down, 362 to go.