Explosive Stuff

Fifteen weeks of morning sickness, a cesarian birth, baby up chuck and spraying urinations, when it comes to secretions, it’s not often I get shocked.

But when it comes to “pooh”, Christopher Robin never saw anything quite like this.

Somebody call Triple “Oh-Ohh-Ohhh!”

The first “Oh” is when you open the nappy. The second “Ohh” comes when you see just how runny it is. The third “Ohhh!”…is when you realize the nappy contains only about one third of its natural contents and the other two thirds is distributed up inside his little body suit.

“For the love of god!!!”

Did our son just poop himself or did an A-Bomb just go off in his B-Bom? Holy smokes! It’s pretty clear the Jaws-of-Life are no match for removing his little clothes without incident and the nappy wipes chose to commit suicide, rather than tackle that kind of cleanup.

There’s only one course of action left open to take. We gotta take our little bloke out…

And hose that sucker down!

Or at the very least, get that kid in the shower…STAT!

How does that even happen? He hasn’t been alive long enough to even eat the amount that erupted from Vesuvius. Now I know how the dinosaurs died, trapped beneath a flash-flood mudslide of cosmic proportions. I’m surprised he even has any bones left. Wow!

I haven’t seen that much relief since “Band Aid” or when they finally cancelled Baywatch. If its taught me anything at all, I’ve learned to never underestimate my son, in any capacity.

And if we ever go missing, contact the nearest archeologist and be sure to dig for our fossilized remains beneath the biggest pile of you know what, this suburb has ever seen.

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