We've discussed some pretty disturbing things together, reader, but nothing as disturbing as my daughters diaper.
There are times a stench unlike any you've ever encountered is wafting towards us from her tiny bum. Brett and I have full on battles debating who will have to change it. Offers like "I'll wash the dishes for the next forty years," and "You can go to Paris if you'll do it," often are tossed about.
When finally I break down (Paris people, come on), I plan for the worst. I get out fifty wipes in preparation. I have the fire hose going off in the front yard just in case. I plan on finding Brittney from the third grade, hunting her down and going to her house, to Albania, if I have to, and leave this giant stench bomb in her garbage. That's pay back. That's karma. To sum up, this girls' stench is epic.
I'm planning all of this, and with a twinge in my gut I unwrap the poor diaper that's had to endure my daughters stench, only to find...is that it? A pebble? A PEBBLE! How, how on earth could this tiny pebble of waste amount to such horror? Oh the horror.
Brett and I have dubbed these little anomalies "Nuclear Diapers". Because even the smallest of atoms, in the right (or wrong) conditions can amount to such terror as this little pebble. Disgusting.
Come back tomorrow and I'll regale you with stories of my son screaming at me from the bathroom to come and view his giant feces. I love being a mom.