Shit Happens

Scrubs was right. Everything does come down to poo.
I don't like poo. I like to pretend it doesn't exist unless I am using poo humor to connect with my second graders. I am completely grossed out by it. If someone tries to talk to me about it, I generally just bear the conversation uncomfortably while thinking about peaceful things like kittens and rainbows and Panera's strawberry-poppyseed salad. Yum. Unfortunately, having a baby means I am confronted by poo on a daily basis. Multiple times. When Baby was first born, we had so many visitors that I could just pan him off on someone else, and they'd deal with his poo. I don't think I changed a diaper for at least the first week. I knew when I had a baby that I'd have to deal with poo, but I pictured it as something that would be easily cleaned up, like spilled grape juice in a Resolve Carpet Cleaner commecial. And since my friend told me breastfed babies' poo doesn't smell, I wasn't too worried. Ha. It's gross and smelly and messy and I'm learning all sorts of new colors I didn't know existed. I am confronting poo in a way I never imagined.
Baby has pooed on me four times now. Actually on me. The first time it happened Baby was just two weeks old. I was holding him on my knees when I heard an explosion. Then another. Then a third. With the final explosion, I felt something warm running down the side of my abdomen and started screaming. I yelled to Husband that I'd just been shit on, and he started laughing. "Stop laughing! Go fix this!" I yelled. Husband's solution was to keep laughing and get a roll of paper towels. He swaddled Baby in paper towels while I sat on the couch yelling and swearing. When I told the story the next day, my brother-in-law looked at me and said, "You really thought that wouldn't happen?" It's not that I thought it wouldn't happen, it's more like the thought of being pooed on never crossed my mind until it happened. I told this story to my second graders, and they thought it was hillarious. When I went to visit them a second time, they asked if I'd been pooed on again. I said no, because I hadn't, and the next day, Baby took a dump on me again. The third time he emptied himself onto me was Monday, as in two days ago. I'm not sure how or when it happened, but when I got up from playing with him, I noticed a huge amber colored stain on my white shirt, and a smaller stain on my pajama pants. I was home with Baby alone, so I couldn't even take a shower. I was grossed out by myself all day.
Today was the most recent time. Again, I was just playing with Baby, and as part of his fun, he decided to let me experience his most recent meal's trip through his immature digestive system. Husband went for the paper towels and merely said, "So that makes us 3-0 now, right?" I glumly reminded him that we are actually 4-0. He's not been as fortunate as I am in this respect. I guess, on the bright side, at least it gave me a chance to shower today.
I really can't believe this keeps happening to me. I am the worst person in the world to deal with this, because, again, I really like to pretend poo doesn't exist. Maybe I'm being punished for being so modest? prudish? I'm not sure what the right word is here.
So if you don't have children, think long and hard about this before you decide to procreate. You, too, may be pooed on. Nobody ever told me that, but I don't want you to be surprised. And if you do have children, I know you're probably out there in computer land mocking my naivete on this matter. It's okay, I deserve it, and I now mock me, too.
And now I must leave the computer and curl up in the fetal position out of shame that I just wrote an entire post about poo. Or I would if poo existed. Which it doesn't.