They say you never forget your first time, and I remember mine like it was yesterday. It happened in my dining room, and I couldn't tear my clothes off fast enough.
I'm talking about the first time my baby pooped on me.
Miss Em was just a few days old when "the incident" went down, and we were entertaining our first visitor. My friend and I sat around my dining room table catching up as I cradled my sleeping little darling in my arms. I could barely keep my eyes off my sweet baby, and I remember looking down and remarking to myself at one point that her diaper looked a little loose (the fact that I didn't stop to investigate further is a telltale sign that I'd already developed that debilitating condition known as "mommy brain"). Moments later, I heard a massive rumble from her lower half, and I saw my friend's eyes go wide. "What?" I asked. "Did she get me?" She slowly nodded yes, and I looked down to see poop all over my sweater, my pants, and the floor. I immediately jumped up, totally mortified, and ran out of the room to change us both. On the way, I accidentally stepped in the mess and left poop-prints all down the hallway.
If you're not a fan of poop stories, I apologize, but we haven't even gotten to the grossest part yet.
Later that night, as I undressed for a shower, I peeled off my clothes and discovered more baby poop... inside my own underwear. I shit you not. I know what you're thinking, and, yes, I am a million percent positive it was baby poop. And no, I don't know how it wound up there.
I can offer no explanation other than that my baby might be a magician. Or at least one hell of an overachiever.