Last Monday, we brought Leanne home from the hospital. It’s a weird feeling. We’ve given dozens of people a tour of the house, but this time, we were giving Leanne a tour of her house. It was especially weird when we got to her room. Sure, as parents we have the final say on the room, and realistically we’ll be out of this house well before she’s old enough to want to decorate herself. Regardless, it’s a small part of the house that’s dedicated more to Leanne than to Meg and me.
We got home around 1pm. The following story takes place that night at about 10pm. Keep that in mind; this all transpired within the first 9 hours of the child being home.
I was in the family room on the first floor when I heard Meg calling me. She didn’t sound like she was in the middle of an emergency, but I went upstairs anyway to see what was up.
We keep the pack and play on the second floor, behind the couch. It works out well, since it provides us with a changing table on the second floor (her room and furniture is on the third floor). Meg was in front of the pack and play, but something was different. Let me see if I can describe this properly. She was standing about two feet back from the pack and play, well further than she would have if she was changing Leanne. She was bent over so her hands could touch the changing table, on which I realized Leanne sat.
My immediate fears that something was wrong with her surgery recovery were put to rest when I saw she was laughing. Not too long after, I saw a bright green liquid trail down the front of her shirt.
“She pooped on me.”
“What the hell did you do, pick her up?”
I was confused by the situation. If she hadn’t been dumb enough to pick up a naked newborn, how did she managed to poop down her shirt?
The answer, as it were, had actually arrived earlier that day, well before the question. Kristy and I had been text messaging (blech, I feel like such a teenage girl saying that… I personally think anyone over the age of 16 who sends more than one text message a day seriously needs to get their life in check) earlier that day, sending back and forth picture of Leanne and Ryan (her 8 month old daughter, adorable by the way). She asked if we had experienced any “projectile poop” yet, and simply alluded to how awful it was.
Snapping back from the irony of the timing of Kristy’s warning, I went to the changing table to finish the job while Meg cleaned herself up. The new diaper was now already stained, so I grabbed a new one. In that time, the child decided that she wasn’t finished with the fun yet, and chose that opportune moment to pee. A picturesque fountain of urine emerged from my child, continuing to soak both her onesie and swaddle blanket, as well as giving the waterproof changing table a nice thin layer of liquid in which she now sat.
Stunned at our awful luck, we both noticed one key aspect of the adventure: this was the first time we changed Leanne where she didn’t cry. If anyone was wondering, Leanne got my sense of humor and obnoxiousness.
We managed to stumble through the situation. Eventually, we got a clean, dry diaper on to the child. I picked her up so she wouldn’t get any dirtier in the cesspool we once called a changing table while Meg grabbed a new onesie. Not content that her work was done, the half naked child decided to spit up. Right down the front of my shirt.
That makes three different orifices from which the child chose to expel liquids. Two of which managed to hit mom and dad. My child erupted.
Here’s a finally tally of the amount of laundry generated by one changing:
1 Swaddle Blanket
1 Changing Pad Padding
2 Adult T-Shirts
Never let it be said that Leanne doesn’t have a penchant for the dramatic. She waited until we were home from the hospital, away from the ability to send her away to the nursery for the night, before unleashing this flood of bodily fluids.
This was the first night at home with our new daughter. I’d say this sufficiently qualifies as a bad omen.
Follow Up: Grandpa and Uncle Eric came to visit today for Eric’s birthday. After two peaceful hours of sleeping on grandpa, Leanne needed changing. Meg took that job while I went to start dinner. I chose wisely, as Leanne decided it was another key opportunity to demonstrate the awesome power of her ass. This time, it was much less liquidly and in much greater quantities. I came into the room to find it literally dripping off the front of Meg’s shirt. Let’s take a look at the leaderboards:
Number of times projectile shit on by Leanne
Daddy’s little girl indeed.