We have had an eventful few days. On Friday we took Asher to the doctor because we thought for sure he had an ear infection. Turns out he's just teething ("just" teething...right).
(Rubbing his sore little gum)
While we ruled out an ear infection, we learned that Asher has lost weight and dropped from the 50th percentile (where he was in June) to the 25th. Our best guess is that my milk supply decreased following an autoimmune flare, so Asher is now getting formula after each nursing session. The doctor told us to feed him on demand, until he pushes away the boob or bottle. We are calling this 'Operation Milk Balloon' -- as he is eating so much his tummy turns into a bulbous, bloated, baby belly at every meal (hence...milk balloon).
Today, Operation Milk Balloon resulted in Poopageddon.
(I mean look at those cheeks....obviously Asher is not terribly underweight...)
Let me set the stage, because there is more to it than you think. Last night Ben was throwing the ball for Harlan in our backyard. In the middle of chasing his ball, Har shrieked and started spinning in circles, nipping at his back, whining and yelping. I of course, started tearing up and yelled at Ben to go save our dog because I thought he had broken a leg or speared himself with a stick or been stung by a killer bee...something life-threatening, based on Harlan's reaction. But no. Our super smart, incredible genius dog simply ran into a tree. You heard me right. Into. A tree. Ben saw the whole thing: while running full speed, he cut too close to a defenseless tree trunk and just rocked it. Once he stopped whirling around our backyard like a downed tasmanian devil, Har slinked beneath the patio table and stayed there, trembling and whimpering.
This morning it was clear that Harlan had actually injured himself. So being the good dog dad Ben is, he brought his bed downstairs and told me I should limit how much Harlan tailed Ash and I around all day. Following suit, I proceeded to transform our kitchen into a play area, diaper changing station, nap zone, and work space. The three of us would spend the whole day hanging out there.
A veteran mom would have done things differently. A veteran mom would have thought 'Hey, my baby has had some mild diarrhea since we started formula three days ago, I should be prepared for the worst." A veteran mom would not have surrendered her regular diaper changing battle station for a makeshift back-up with a handful wipes, a few extra diapers, and organic baby powder. Because guess how much good those things do during a real poop emergency? No good. Nada. Zip. Unless the organic baby powder can be used as a salt substitute to sprinkle on your wrist and lick prior to taking a shot of Patron before diving elbows deep into diarrhea ... no good, it does no good. A veteran mom would have known this.
Buuuuut I'm a rookie.
So instead of a messy but manageable situation, we had a war zone. We had a "Where's FEMA when you need them?" diarrhea disaster. We had poopageddon.
I noticed that Asher needed to be changed so I put him down on his pile of blankies and took off the wet diaper. Pause: Baby butts should come with a warning system. Some sort of an alarm. When Ash was a newborn he farted approximately one minute before he pooped-- every. single. time. Where did that mechanism go? Why did he outgrow that precious gift? Because without a warning system, you run the risk of getting projectile pooped on. Which is what happened to me. Only it didn't stop there. After literally shooting diarrhea like water from a fire hydrant all over his mommy, Asher continued to poop. I was able to grab a new diaper and slide it under his butt, but he filled it within minutes. I frantically reached for another diaper and replaced the first. As my hands were busy doing this, Asher peed. All over me. All over himself. All over his blankets. Before I could fashion some sort of a 'wee wee tent' to prevent more pee problems, the second diaper was full of poop. I reached for a third diaper which was when I realized, after that guy, I was out of diapers. Hopefully he only had three diapers full of poop in him. Here's the thing about 'hope' as a rookie parent-- if in the middle of a crisis you are having to 'hope' for something a) you went terribly wrong somewhere and b) of course the thing you're hoping for will never, ever happen. As Asher filled the third diaper I looked around the kitchen in a panic. What was I going to do once this diaper was a goner? The moment was rapidly approaching. And as I took my eyes off of him for one second to find a back-up for my back-ups, Asher proceeded to deliberately (some might say nefariously?) plunge his hands down between his legs, squealing with glee was they 'squish squish squished' poop. Well, I thought, that's pretty much the worst that can happen. And then I got peed on. Again. Because rookie mom never did put a wee wee tent in place. As I slid the third full diaper out from under his butt and shoved one of his wonderfully soft, snuggly muslin blankies in its place (...such a bummer), I had to just sit back and laugh. I mean what else do you do? It only took 8 minutes for Asher to poop his way through three diapers and a blanket (THREE diapers people!), to pee on me twice, and to cover his entire body in gross 'I'm a milk balloon' excrement.
Since then Asher has been bathed, I've showered, the baby is drinking pedialyte to make up for the gallon of fluid he lost, and Harlan is still napping on his bed, happy we've all stayed in the kitchen so he doesn't have to move.
No comments:
Post a Comment