What Goes In...

...can come back out in many different and interesting ways, including some that I'm still scratching my head about. I should have made a mental note during my first parenting failure that the whole matter of input and output was going to be problematic for me. I'd always been warned that little boys had a unique ability to create arcing fountains during diaper changes, so it took me completely by surprise when it was not Doodlebug who got me first. Before we even left the hospital, Inchworm had not only peed on me (twice) but had also christened the nurses. (Yes - nurses, plural. They loved us.)

Photo courtesy of blary54 on stock.xchng.

Thus it was one day, as I changed Doodlebug's diaper in my sleep-deprivation-induced fog, that I got a little sloppy with the quick diaper swap. He was crying, and I was more focused on soothing him than on perfecting my diapering technique. As I lifted up his little legs to slide the new diaper under his bottom, he unleashed a geyser of pee with the force of water speeding over Niagara Falls. It was one of those slow-motion moments. Noooooo... I saw the path of the fountain before I could do anything to stop it. Poor Doodlebug lay on the changing table, mouth open mid-scream, as he peed all over his face and upper body. It went in. his. mouth. I was horrified at my parenting ineptitude. EPIC fail.

I have since learned - keep the hosepipe covered at all times during diaper changes. It's like one of those rules on planes: keep your seatbelt on at all times when you're seated. Nine times out of ten you won't need it, but when that plane hits turbulence, you'll be glad it's fastened. Same principle.

Inchworm no longer poses a threat in the diaper department; instead she is busily perfecting the art of the supreme spit up. If it's at all projectile in nature, so much the better. She demonstrated the skill of her sport earlier this week while I carried her from her crib to the living room. As soon as I picked her up, she executed her trademark inchworm move, pushing her bottom out and scooting the top half of her body downward in an effort to nurse. (Hence the nickname.) On this particular occasion, she somehow managed to simultaneously spit up down my shirt while sending another salvo shooting out across the newly-cleaned floor. Huge mess on the floor and inside (!) my shirt, but not so much as a drop on her outfit. Talented, eh?

So yesterday, when Doodlebug annointed himself with pureed carrots (which I promptly followed with the laying on of towels), I thought I had seen the worst that the week had to offer. Surely it can only get better from here, right?

Wrong. This morning, I heard the telltale warning bell of a diaper explosion in progress. Inchworm had "the look" so I didn't bother to sniff-test first. I whisked her off to the changing table stat. The sound I heard had all the hallmarks of gooey disaster and I was wasting no time. As soon as I peeled off her diaper, I felt like a losing contestant on The Price is Right - the one who is amped up to get the flashy car but instead chooses the door with the camping gear. You've seen it before - the well-manicured lady who thinks "roughing it" means staying somewhere with only one bathroom, gazing at the camping gear with a dazed look remniscent of a bald man being offered a complimentary cut and color.

As I stared at the surprise of an empty diaper, the reality of the situation started to sink in. The "prize" I heard was in Doodlebug's diaper. Doodlebug's diaper - and Doodlebug - were happily bouncing in the jumper. (Well, "bouncing" is a gentle word for what he does in the jumper. It's more like he's trying to launch himself into space. After all, who needs booster rockets? He has Red Wings socks!)

Here again, we find another immutable law of physics. What goes in, must come out. And what goes up, will come - no, wait. That's not right. In the jumper, what goes up, sometimes stays up. Especially if it's something that can smear and leave a trail of its rambling exploits. I rushed back to the living room, settled Inchworm in the Bumbo chair and snatched up Doodlebug.

Too late. I could feel it along my arm as I sprinted back to the nursery. His back was slick with - well, I will leave the details up to your imagination. I will, however, say that I had a brief memory of a frat house in college who hosted an annual mudslide. I resigned myself to the task at hand and started scrubbing the mess from between his shoulder blades.

I returned to the living room, determined to redeem the remains of the day, and froze in my tracks. Seated happily in the middle of the floor were Inchworm and the dog, heads bent together over a pile of toys. Happily licking at the spit up that dribbled down around them.

EPIC parenting fail. Is it bedtime yet?

(ETA: As I was writing this, Inchworm woke from her nap. Sure enough, she spit up all over me as soon as I came to get her. Again - not a drop on herself. How does she do that?!?)