Recently I got the rare honor of spending the day with my adorable little baby niece. When my mother called and asked me if I could watch her, I thought, well hell yes. She’s cute, I’m cute. It’s a match made in heaven, right?
As I’ve mentioned before; kids aren’t exactly my forte. Kittens, sure. Wine, I got that. But kids…meh.
Looking back, this delusion of grandeur must have been spawned from watching unrealistic Pampers commercials.
At first it was all going great. We watched Bambi, we watched Tarzan. We played tickle and learned how to say puppy. I was thinking how easy this all was and what a bunch of sissies most parents are. But then several repetitions into the word puppy, I smelled the all too familiar aroma of feces. That’s no big deal. I’ve changed diapers and I excelled at it, dammit.
However, nothing could have prepared me for the unspeakable things I would witness on this day, and I shall never be able to un-see them.
I took the little niece to the spare room and laid her down on the bed. This spare room is home to a magnificent comforter that I spent entirely too much money on and have never regretted it. Until now. Rookie move.
I’ve seen things burst forth from the bowels of elephants that didn’t compare to what I observed when I opened that Pamper. It was everywhere, and as I explored deeper, I discovered that it covered her whole ass and the entire southern region of Texas.
I could not wrap my head around the fact that this all came from one little human twenty-pounder. My eyes began to water and I started to become ill. As I attempted to repress the vomit to the back of my throat, I realized this was a poop of epic proportions.
I found Jimmy Hoffa in there. I found the Lost City of Atlantis and Flight 370. There it all was, leaking out onto my pretty silver comforter.
Then the baby started to squirm. Keeping that shit from getting all over me, the comforter, and her was a feat nothing short of herding rabid cats.
I was unable to herd the rabid cats.
I was unable to save the comforter.
I was unable to save myself.
I was unable to prevent the baby’s octopus-like extremities from painting the house with the ghost of Cheerios past.
I began to weep and call out for my mommy, because I couldn’t use the phone seeing that my hands were covered in shit. The baby was laughing, I was crying, the dogs were howling, the fish began floating up to the surface…it was mayhem.
The baby looked in my eyes and grinned. I was too afraid to not grin back, because shit, look what she did to Jimmy.
I cleaned her up, sent my comforter on a flaming ship out into the ocean, and cried in the corner for the rest of the afternoon. I had been conquered by the likes of someone who, until today, could not say puppy. But you better believe she could use a complete sentence to order a hit on my ass. You just don’t mess with that.
The next time my mother asks if I can watch the baby, I will make sure to have the house blessed and sprinkled in holy water first. I will get out the shop vac and suck the diaper dry, and it should work depending on if the other hidden relics she has up in there will fit in the vacuum hole.
But if nothing else came from this, at least several mysteries were solved and I have a firm understanding that I should stick to litter boxes.