Before you are a parent, the thought of dealing with diapers is pretty much the grossest thing you can think of. And honestly, poop is pretty gross. I'm sure I don't need to explain this to any of you, though.
Well, the reality of it all is that it's a whole bunch of build up. After the first couple of weeks, you figure out how to deal with it all and it's just a part of life. You sniff little bottoms for evidence, change the offending parcels anywhere and everywhere, and you get on with it. If you can pawn it off on a spouse or grandparent, it's just that much better. But really, it's nothing.
But poopy out of the diaper is another story. It's wild. It's unconfined. And most of the time if it's out, you've got a mess on your hands. Or the stroller. Or the sweet little outfit. Gags usually accompany this kind of mess.
Then after several months, the poop loses its mystique. In the case of our little critter, poop is hard to come by, so you're thankful that it finally does because then we're all happier.
Well tonight, Phoebe was having a difficult time taking care of business. When things started moving, though, she was in the tub. Michael and I looked at each other and made a quick decision: we would allow her to finish things up.
That's right: two consenting, college educated adults made the decision to allow an out of the diaper poopy. Afterwards, I assured Michael that I'd clean everything up once Phoebe got in bed; my sweetheart decided to go ahead and take care of it.
"It's just poop, honey," he says.
Although I don't know what makes us more officially parents: the fact that we think poop is no big deal, or that we're willing to talk about it so openly.
But really. It's no big deal.