By: Heather Somaini
Poop is utterly terrible. When your newborn comes home and starts pooping everywhere, it’s all good. Why you ask? Because the poop really isn’t poop. It’s some odd non-poop that cleans up easily and barely makes a dent in your day. I mean, there are a ton of diaper changes but the poops are small and containable. It’s like poop-lite. Then your baby gets a bit bigger and the poops start getting bigger too. And smellier. But it’s still containable.
Until THAT day. You know the day…the day your really attractive, always put-together girlfriend comes over and desperately wants to hold the babies. She’s so sweet and thoughtful and brings gorgeous outfits for them to wear. We chat away for what seems like an eternity, having a GREAT time. And then it happens. She mentions that maybe something is amiss with the baby she’s holding. I reassure her that everything is just fine. More time passes and when she adjusts the baby, poop is everywhere. I mean everywhere. It’s incredibly embarrassing. She swears it’s not a problem but we’re mortified. Her $200+ jeans now reek of poop. She did come back one more time to visit and luckily for us it was “incident-less” but strangely enough, she moved back east after that. I’m sure it was because of the poop.
Friends with older kids look at you with those puppy dog eyes and nod their head while you talk about how bad the poop has gotten since those early days. They listen attentively while you lament. I keep thinking that they understand me and are going to commiserate. They then point out that we’ve not seen the worst of it and it’s going to get MUCH worse. I point out that it’s not possible.
And then IT happens. Oh you know the day…the day you go to that outdoor café in West Hollywood that’s frequented by gays and straights alike. It’s the perfect place for an early evening dinner with my wife and our “few” month-olds. The previously mentioned baby with the pooping problem needs to be changed so I take her into the back where I might be able to have a bit of privacy (although I’m generally not like that at all but something tells me I should be this time). As soon as I put her down, I realize the poop is EVERYWHERE. It’s on everything. There is no salvaging any of the clothes. Poop is on all of them. For some reason, we have no extra set of clothes. I use a million baby wipes to clean the baby, re-diaper her and proudly carry my “diaper-only-wearing” baby back out to that café of chic, hot, urbanites who I’m sure can’t even figure out why we’re there. I find a blanket and proceed to eat dinner with a virtually naked baby in my lap. We haven’t been back since.
Poop starts to take over your life. That’s all we discuss. Poop. Have they pooped? When did they poop? What was the color of the poop? Was the poop solid or not? How much poop was there? We can discuss poop while eating, driving, over cocktails – it doesn’t matter. Poop is our life. We manage poop, clean up poop, encourage poops…
And then IT happens again. Oh yes, by now you certainly know the day…that day you decide to go to the beach because your child-free, gay friends are having an all-day beach-a-thon. Gorgeous, sculpted bodies swimming, sunbathing, boogie boarding. The babies can’t have sunscreen yet so we buy a special UV-protected mini-tent to keep them inside. We finally get the twins to take a nap and I trudge off to find an ice cream for Tere. When I return, all hell has broken loose. Babies are crying, pumped breast milk is spilled and Tere is losing it. I try to help but suddenly I realize, it’s happened again and this time poop is all over my wife’s white linen shirt and Capri pants. All over. Oh that won’t do. That baby has now crossed the line into exploding poopie. There is no going back now. There’s no way to salvage the white linen shirt. We must depart.
Our friends who haven’t seen us in months are arriving and I scurry past them with all our gear. I can’t explain; they won’t understand. I simply say that you can’t argue with a new mama when her baby has pooped all over her white linen shirt. And you know what? You really can’t. I drove her home in silence from Malibu and somewhere around Santa Monica she started speaking to me again.
Poop. It only gets worse.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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