That’s right, dear readers, I’m posting about poop. I blog about what’s on my mind, and, as a new parent, poop is on my mind a lot.
It’s one of those you only really think about once you become a parent. In all my life, I had never thought about poop as much as I have since Pearl Girl was born. It starts as a newborn. Doctors, nurses, they all want to know how many times she poops per day, what color, what consistency, what quantity… which, in itself, wasn’t so bad.
What sucked was the absolute panic I felt when I realized Pearl Girl hadn’t pooped for six days (which is apparently normal, for the age she was at the time). Or when she started teething, and therefore drooling (and drooling, and drooling), and filled her diapers with liquidy, oozy, grossness that got EVERYWHERE. EVERYWHERE. As in scooping up my magnificent daughter to give her a big squeeze, without realizing that she’s released the poop-equivalent of the Fat Man & Little Boy atomic bombs combined, seeping withing seconds out of her diaper, through her pants, and is then all across my arm, and on my shirt.
Now that she’s started solids, with the introduction of each new food comes the worry of constipation. The poop analysis is never-ending.
“Is this too hard? Am I feeding her too much cereal???”
“Oh god, it’s liquid. Is this diarrhea? Is this an allergic reaction? Am I feeding her too much fruit?????”
And then there’s the Holy freaking Inquisition that Papa Wolf is subjected to when he changes her diaper.
They didn’t tell me about this before I became a parent.
Originally posted to my former blog, The Master Multitasker Mom, December 31st, 2014.