Poojuice

So... yes. The babywoman still cries uncontrollably. At this point, it's probably not reflux, but Dr. Pelinka thinks we should keep up with the medicine until the full two-week trial is up. I appreciate those who gave me reflux-related advice, but I think when next Monday rolls around, I'll be tossing that medication in the trash. Oh well. It was worth a try.

Today was Amelia's two-month checkup.* She was fussier during this visit than she was during this month's visit, though I'm not sure how much I should attribute to the most epic poosplosion of all time.

After checking in at the front desk, I uncover Amelia's lower half to see what any new parent dreads discovering... yellow poojiuce soaked through baby's pants. Oh dear. And, of course, Amelia is already bawling at the top of her lungs. The little babywoman doesn't seem to mind wet or soiled diapers as I've heard some babies do, so, to my despair, I know cleaning the poosplosion is probably not going to shut up the baby. In fact, I'm reasonably certain cleaning up this modern artform will likely only make her more upset. What she really wants is to nurse. But am I going to nurse her in this state? Hhhheck no.

And then the waiting room is full of people.

So, I know most of the parents there aren't thinking, What's wrong with that woman? Why can't she get her baby to just shut up? But still. I'm a little self-conscious, and I'm thinking to myself, Self, everybody here thinks you're an incompetent bum-mother! And then I think, No, Self! No, they don't!

Nevertheless, when I pull baby out of the carseat, I start cooing loudly that I know exactly what will make her feel better, even though I'm convinced she's going to scream for the next hour straight. And then I proceed to pretend that the squirt is crying only because she poosploded. Really, everybody, I am the most competent mother on the planet. My baby never cries except under great duress. Like epic poosplosions. Clearly, I haven't been trying to comfort the creature into silence (or, even better, coos and giggles) for the last two weeks. I've totally got this.

So, yeah. There I am trying to appear competent. Thankfully I have a multitude of plastic grocery bags, so I can toss the poojuiced clothing in one, and then another one for the overwhelmed diaper and the plenitude of wipes that are about to meet their destiny.

I disrobe the little one and discover, to my intense dismay, that the poo is caked all down her leg and is smushed in between her toes. It is also on her chest and back. And Amelia is screaming, her eyes pleaing and demanding, Mother! Why are you taking off my clothes!? Hoooold me! I want to nurse! Why do you torture me so!?

Some woman with a three-year-old daughter walks past me, and looks down at my screaming poo-covered baby in disgust. She comments to her own daughter, "So what do you think? Should Mommy have another baby?" The toddler replies, wide-eyed, "No. No, Mommy, don't do it." "That's right," she assented. "Mommy is never having another baby." And then she visibly shuddered.**

I use the entire supply in my go-to wipe box. And it really just looks like I've spread the poo around Amelia's poor angry, trembling body. Thankfully, I have a backup wipe box in the bag. Someone in the waiting room lets out an audible sigh of relief. "Oh, good. I was afraid she didn't have enough wipes!" And then I empty the second box... and pull out my very last box of wipes--my backup backup box of wipes. Someone else mutters to their neighbor, "I don't think I ever carried that many wipes with me at a time. I couldn't imagine a diaper explosion that big..." I think that lady just got lucky or something. Or had one baby who had small, frequent bowel movements. Something like that.

Amelia is finally somewhat clean, but is angrier than ever. I've been cooing, "Does this feel better yet? I know, this is uncomfortable..." the entire time. I almost start putting a fresh onesie on, when I remember that I should probably just hold the naked mole-rat for a while, as I'm going to have to strip her for the weigh-in anyway.

I finally start nursing her, and she practically bites my nubs off with enthusiasm, and perhaps a hint of bitterness. Thankfully, although she doesn't get at all quiet, she stops all out screaming.

The appointment with the doctor went fine. Amelia still looks perfectly healthy. Regarding her weight, the pediatrician commented, "You know, you don't have to feed her so much... I mean, she's not going to grow up obese or anything, but..." And then the baby cried and cried. Of course, once she started drifting off to sleep, she got three lovely, pokey shots. And then she screamed some more. Yay...

So yeah. That's been my day. I'm exhausted. Washing out the poojuiced clothing was great fun. It was sticky and and thick and gross. How are you?

Love and poojuice,
Jenna and Amelia
_____
*The pediatrician was dressed as Minnie Mouse.
**I got the impression the toddler had been begging for a baby brother or baby sister.