It's been awhile since we've talked about poop, so I thought I'd break the dry spell. Your mother has been infatuated with the amount of poop that comes out of you. She doesn't have a lot, otherwise, to brag about when it comes to her daughter yet. Poop volume is about all we've got.
You've had a number of diaper "blowouts." That's when... how shall we say?... the river floods its banks... or when the dike bursts from a deluge... or when the pressure cooker explodes. The result is usually an unscheduled bed change.
Whenever this happens, your mother tells me: "You missed it, Dana!" as though it were a shooting star or an ice cream truck. Your little blowouts have happened often enough that I can almost Mad-Lib what she reports each time: "It was like a ______ (fountain/geyser/volcano)! It hit the ______ (nurse/RT/doctor) right on the __________ (wrist/forearm/nose)!"
Today, I finally had the opportunity to see first hand one of these blowouts... but without the diaper on. I felt privileged, in a way. Like someone who gets to see a magic show from behind the stage.
When the nurse took the diaper off, there was only a tiny little streak of green. But I wasn't fooled. You were like a predator, waiting in ambush for your prey to get closer. As soon as the nurse moved in to wipe, a long column of brown arced out. We were all startled, but it was far from the end. The nurse went in to clean up again, but as soon as her gloved hand got close enough, another gush. This continued for about seven or eight more salvos. The nurse expressed her concern that she was going to run out of baby wipes.
Between each spurt, your mother had a panicked expression on her face and asked repeatedly: "Is this normal?"
The whole ordeal reminded me of someone trying (and failing) to plug a hole in a boat. Or a trauma doctor unsuccessfully attempting to stop a hemorrhaging patient. No matter how hard they might try, they can only divert the flow, not stop it. By the end of it, there was enough poop laden tissue to fill a baby sized laundry basket.
Anyway, I wouldn't call the incident some fond memory worth relishing, but it certainly was one worth remembering. I feel the same way one would when looking down on a catastrophic oil spill. It may not be a pleasant sight, but you have to admire it for its size.