Where’s the Poop, Gabe?

Okay Gabe, so I thought it was funny when I picked you up by the feet to see if your diaper leaked, only to cause a waterfall of liquid poo to pour from the back of your diaper like a teapot onto your gown and the towel beneath that; and that hardly diminished the lake that was waiting discovery inside of your diaper. This whole going-thirty-six -hours-between-bowel-movements thing sounds so nice in the instruction manual; sure, potentially fewer poopy diapers the second month! Hours and hours of inoffensive pee only. But the cheery description in the book fails to summarize the quantities of yellow goo that come pouring out of you. Or, as your daddy said, “it’s still coming out! It’s like the blob!”

Perhaps worse is the waiting. Will you poo now, here on the white sofa? While you are asleep in the bassinet? Or now, in the car? I gave you a bath in a desperate attempt to coax the unwanted stuff out of you, risking a tub full of watery feces. I am afraid, because no diaper can possibly contain what will come out of you.

And is this bewildering nightly evening of crying colic, or because you are experiencing discomfort with your digestion? The latter makes sense, considering that you downed a full bottle of formula and then half an hour later still had the audacity to nurse. And then nurse, again. News flash: the formula is supposed to make you sleepy, not to mention full. I’m afraid to put more in you, because I know, I *know* it’s all building up in there, and either the pressure will prevent you and me from sleeping and make you cry in misery, or you will sleep and sleep until there is a sloshy explosion and neither you nor the bassinet sheets will ever be the same.

Perhaps you consider it an anniversary gift to your parents not to poop for a day? Please, next time just pick out a card from Hallmark.

I go to bed now, but I will sleep in fear. . .