Fool me once, shame on you; Fool me twice, shame on me.
Or as I like to think: Poop on me once, shame on you; Poop on me twice, shame on me.
Well, let me clarify. With children, it is inevitable to get poop on you, especially during those crazy newborn months. I'm specifically referring to getting poop on my mouth. I think this is rare. Of the moms, I've surveyed, few people share poop in mouth stories and yet, I have two poopy mouth stories. I've hit the the poop lottery.
The first poop in mouth story was when HT was still in that glorious infant state, when she didn't move around very much. I used to put bring the play mat into the kitchen and she'd lay on the floor looking at her jungle toys and laughing or just lay there and stare at me. She'd struggle to move, but she was tiny so she just stuck there until I moved her. She'd stay there quite happily, cooing and making other weird gurgling sounds. On this particular day, she was dressed in a peach onesie and matching peach polka dot pants. Her blond hair was just fuzz and her belly was that tiny infant belly that swelled with milk. It was perfectly round hanging over leggings. Her belly was so round and perfect that it was a constant target for tickles and kisses. I simply couldn't help myself! On this particular night, HT had managed to scoot herself around on the mat and was squawking, not crying, but making some kind of baby bird noise and like a million times before that, I swooped down to kiss that little belly to elicit giggles. When my mouth contacted the peach onesie, my lips were wet. My brain did a quick calculation of where all the open cups/water bottles were and then bang, it hit me; I had just kissed a poopy belly. Can you imagine a scenario where you shit so much that it goes up the front of your shirt? I can't. But then again, I've never subsisted on a diet of only breast milk. I immediately screeched. HT cried. I ran my mouth under the faucet. I should add that my lips and chin were covered in that peachy, yellow infant poo at this point. I quickly changed her, and filed away the story for when she's 18 and staying out too late. Afterwards, I always checked her belly before any belly kisses or tickles. I'm not going to make that mistake again.
Or, so I thought.
HT was in her crib for her nap when I heard shout "Mommy! Mommy!" It's a familiar sound, not so much a whine, more like "I'm done napping and I'm bored. Please come and get me." She wasn't crying, just sort of beseeching me or anyone to get her out the crib so she could play tea party for tenth time that day. I should mention that prior to this, HT started giving me her hand to kiss, like a little royal. I'm certain she learned it from Bean since we play princesses here 70% of the time. Normally, HT gives me her hand and I kiss it dramatically or she'll grab my hand or arm and kiss it.
When I entered her room, she was standing in her crib, her right hand outstretched. I galloped in with a knight's flair, and I seize her hand and kiss it with all the gallantry of Sir Lancelot himself, and then that's when it hits me: poop. I kissed poop. Again.
She looked at me quizzically, like why the hell are you kissing my poop-covered hands? She started crying immediately. Then I see that not only are hands covered in poop, but the poop has somehow slithered down both pant legs, dripped down on the mattress and pooled directly below the crib. It was a poop waterfall, if you will. And she stood above it crying, clearly confused and uncomfortable. Suddenly the poop on my face wasn't the worst bit. The Stomach Bug had hit landfall. This was the harbinger of worse things to come.
And worse things did come. HT's poop storm lasted five days and Bean puked all over herself and the kitchen floor. The upside was I kept my mouth shut and no poop or puke got in it. Brava to me!