I mean, it was only yesterday.  BUT IT WAS A DAY THAT SHALL LIVE IN INFAMY.

*small intermission to say that we had our first run-in with poop in the tub only the day before, but with one small wee baby turd that was so cute we named him Sparky.*

It began so lovingly.  We, doting parents, carefully played with him for several hours in the wake of his vaccinations.  After a bout with mild constipation at the pediatrician’s office, we offered him an ounce of juice to smooth things out.  Gave him the proper dosage of non-contaminated infant Tylenol, made sure his oats & bottle were warmed to perfection, & created the most fantastic bath with lavender soap every mastered by a parent.

The bath was lovely.  We played with squeak toys, I scrubbed him down, staying mindful of his sore leg.  We laughed, giggled, Harrison farted.  Which is normally no cause for concern.  But this fart..y’all, it STANK.  Like a sulfar plant explosion.  Nate laughed & after a few minutes as the smell lingered, I said, “I think we better check.”  So I lifted the little man by the arms & OH MY GOD, HE WAS SITTING IN A PILE OF POOP.  Poop, that by the smell of it, had been FESTERING IN HIS BODY FOR DAYS.

I lift him out of the duck tub, & hold him standing in the tub-tub & Nate is all, “OH MY GOD, WHAT DO WE DO?!”  So I’m all, “Pass me the soap, I’ll scrub him down again.  He MUST be re-washed after sitting in poop, right?”  (I mean, right?!)  I lather the boy up with more soap, & as every loving mother should, ran my hand between his cheeks to wash off the offending area.  Which I guess was the call to action, because he pooped.  Again.

ON MY HAND.  I pulled my hand back, & he kept pooping.  Into the tub.  So now, friends, we have:
a) poop in the duck
b) poop on the boy
c) poop on the mom
d) poop in the tub

Y’all…the poop was like gypsy children in Italy.  EVERYWHERE & all up in your face & no stopping it so you clutch your pocket book to your chest & pray you make it out with at least half of your euros & sanity.  The duck was defiled.  I was brown to my elbows.  & the bathtub looked like a crime scene of shit.  I handed Harrison to Nate, who is holding him over the duck & while I am BARE-HANDEDLY pushing poop down the drain, Harrison poops on that poor bathtub ducks beak.

HARRISON.  You love that beak!  It talks to you & makes you giggle!  Why must you be so rude?!  & Nate’s all “OH MY GOD, POOP!  HE’S SHITTING ON THE DUCK!”  for the thousandth time.  & so I grab the shower head & just hose the whole shop down.  Harry, duck, tub, Momma.  HOSED.  I scrub the boy for the third time, & Nate wraps him in a towel & whisks him off to the nursery to bed dressed.  Where Harrison poops a little more in the towel.

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME, KID.

Finally, we have the kid de-pooped, dressed, & ready for bedtime bottle.  I ask Nate, “Bottle or poop?”  & blessed man, since I cleaned up the previous night’s poop & had already used MY OWN BARE HANDS to push part of it down the drain that night, handed me both baby & bottle.

He was still squirting down the duck with Lysol when I laid Harrison in the crib.