Our first big poop episode, which so many folks have heard, was after our first trip to the Peds, where I. managed to do in about six thousand diapers between our chat with the doctor and our visit with the lactation specialist. Then we went to Pumpkin Patch, intent upon buying a carrier (most likely a Bjorn), but only after trying on a couple and comparing features. C. gets I. all snuggled into the FIRST BJORN WE TRY, and I notice the tell-tale ooze down the leg of her adorable little footie suit. Needless to say, that’s the one we bought.

Second story happens approximately 18 months later. I. is a chatty, chatty girl now, and somehow has an innate understanding that Poop. Is. Funny. I don’t know how the kids know this, but they do. So, she’s in the rocker with me, and Daddy is getting up to go get her sippy cup while she and I read “Madeline.” Daddy passes gas, which, for some time, I. had been declaring meant that someone was “poopy!” So, she looks at me, and says, “Daddy poopy!” And I say, “Yes, Daddy passed gas.” Then we turn to the page in the book where Madeline says, “Pooh-pooh!” to the tiger in the zoo. I. Looks at me and says, “Madeline pooh! pooh! Daddy poopy!” then she chuckles and chuckles through the rest of the book.

I love the boob trick. I suppose you have to have the infant with you for that to work, huh?

Since my son would wait so long to poop, when he finally did get around to it, it was usually way too much for one measly little diaper to hold. Once, while I was bathing him in the sink, he let loose and it was like a brown fountain. Trying to contain the explosion with my hand wasn’t enough. I had to throw a dish towel on his little behind and do zone defense.

My son was a helpful baby, so accompanying the sight and smell was always a rip roaring raspberry to alert me to dive for towels and wipes. More than once, I had to tell horrified looking nearby strangers that my son’s loud outbursts were “not me”.

With my son’s dreadful poop timing, I knew that I had a plane ride in my future that was doomed. So there we were, mother and son, coming back from California on Southwest Airlines. We’re running late (because I’m always running late) and the airplane is packed (because Southwest flights are always packed) which means that we get the worst seat on the plane. I find myself stuck between two huge men, in the last row of seats which are facing the row in front of us, unable to recline. It has been ten days since my son’s last poop and I’m fully aware that he’s due.

The people sitting in front of us are working hard to avoid looking at any of us directly and our row is doing the same to them. Neither man on either side of me is willing to give up an inch of room, much less the arm rests, so mother and child are very cramped. Mommy is crabby.

We take off and right on cue, my son’s bowels let loose. I swear, the entire plane looked back at me to see who farted. Since we had just taken off, I had to wait until the plane leveled off enough for me to get up. Poop can travel vast distances in times like these. As soon as I got the chance, I took my little angel, with poop crawling up his back and through his leg holes, to the bathroom only to discover that there was no changing table. “You’ll have to change him at your seat,” the attendant informed me.

So back I went, noting that both men were giving me plenty of room now. Cleaning up my son was quite an operation and took around 4-500 wipes and a new outfit, but I got it done. I turned around and noted that the looks from the people in front of me ranged from mortified to impressed to embarrassed. I also noted how much I liked the extra room and the use of the arm rests. Unfortunately, both men relaxed, resumed their level of comfort and bumped my arms off of the arm rests, claiming them back for themselves. That’s when I decided that now would be a good time to feed my little darling. Out came the boob. Both arm rests were vacated once again and the rest of the flight was actually fairly comfortable.

We were running late for the 14 hour direct flight home from China to the USA and we had to change Peanut’s diaper, put her in pajamas and get snuggled in before the plane took off. I was in charge of taking off and getting rid of the diaper which I did, mind you, in seconds flat. My partner, usually a calm and sweet-natured woman, was in charge of getting the new diaper on the baby girl.

Okay, so I have whisked off the soggy diaper, placed it in a ziploc bag and stowed it away up top when Baby Girl starts peeing all over my partner who is holding her in front of her. I have only been a parent 13 days so I stand and watch the pee spray right out. Finally, this usally sane and loving woman yells at me to “get the diaper!” I helpfully mention that she is holding the new diaper. “NOT THAT ONE!! THE OLD ONE!!” Well, as anyone who is tidy knows, the old diaper is not an option. I try to explain that the old one is stowed away when our dear baby stops peeing. We are quiet.

Baby Girl has peed all over my partner’s shirt, most of her pants and the biggest issue , in my eyes, her blankey. Did I mention this is a 14 hour flight? New parents means no spare clothes for the adults. Parnter hands me the baby who I diaper and pj and snuggle in with some blankey substitute. She is so tired so doesn’t care. Partner returns from an attempt at cleaning herself and is very quiet. Apparently, the pee saturation episode is my fault.

Footnote: Five years later…still my fault.