This morning in my sleep I faintly heard Aaron repeatedly saying 'chou chou', the chinese word for 'smelly' he uses to refer to poop. With eyes still shut, the maternal instinct made my body leaned over, buried my nose on his diaper-clad bottom and took a whiff. After a confirmed negative for solid biohazard materials, I flopped back onto my warm pillow and swiftly resumed previous state of consciousness.
During the next few minutes I could feel his deep eyes staring at me, flailing one hand in the air while the other clutching the expanded jumbo stuffed diaper he was wearing. I heard the exasperated 'Chou chou! Chou chou!' like someone yelling 'Fire!'. Refusing to leave my dreamy state I decided that his voice was too sweet to cause any alarm. He poked, turned me over, tried to gain my attention, and failed.
In my defense, you see, this happens every morning. He is my natural alarm clock, but it doesn't matter what time he rings it's always just a few minutes before 'he's supposed to'. Y'know what I mean? As he babbles away to his heart's content and rolling around in bed, I normally ignore his gibberish in order to catch those precious imaginary few more minutes of rest until I absolutely have to admit defeat to duty calls. In retrospect, I should have noticed that today it wasn't his usual incessant prattle, but a serious warning of an incoming storm.
So there was a sigh as he gave up, and then silence.
Anyone who has young children knows that if them kiddos aren't otherwise sleeping, silence means trouble. I took a stealthy peek and saw him frowning in deep concentration. Since he remained stationary, it was safe to leave him alone to his train of thoughts. A few 'nnngghh' sounds later, I finally stirred and turned to him. He promptly took my hand and placed a 'gift' from his morning activity while seriously gagging. In the dark I felt a tiny fleck of something sticky dropped into my palm. Visions of bug, rice, booger, hair, flashed before me. Unsure, I got up and found the both of us casualties parked in the battlefield of a war that was already over.
Son sitting in overflowing poop, that's okay, it's not unusual for him.
Organic cotton bedsheet in poop, ABSOLUTELY NOT okay. (Yeah, what motivation).
In a flash he was transported from the bed to the bathtub. Lights on, clothes off, toddler whining, action.
I keep a record of his heaviest diaper: 1.6 lbs to date (sick, right?). This round would've outscored the previous but was already destroyed beyond recognition. Too much substance has escaped that it wouldn't be an accurate reading anyway. Plus the weighing scale might suffocate from odious fume inhalation.
Moments later, as the cleaned little guy zoomed from wall to wall wagging his tail feeling light and liberated (you pup owners know what I mean), I gathered forensic evidence from this morning's natural disaster. To my delight, it was not too bad! The only unharmed survivors were the quilt blanket and Moses, Aaron's beloved puppy (they crossed the Red Sea together, get it?). The other seven victims suffered relatively minor injuries. They were promptly treated in the outpatient clinic under running tap water and soap (not anti-bacterial, please...) and promptly transported to recuperate in the washer and dryer.
Now I'm sitting here deluging in memory of gooeyness and brown battlefield, still trying to figure out the moral of the story. Maybe he's ready to be potty-trained (yess!! the mommy bragging rights!). Maybe I shouldn't have let him eat that third bowl of soba for dinner. Faintly: maybe Mommy should've responded sooner, doh. Ah, heck, let's not overthink it, it was simply another lovely refreshing morning I looked forward to spend with bubelah. As of this morning, my pride and joy has rightfully and effortlessly, outdoing his very own old man, earned the crown title of Pooperstar.
I remember singing while tending to the victims' wounds: "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...."
Have a good weekend y'all!
