The poop-files

Names have not been changed to protect the innocent, as there are none. All parties are guilty. I guess I could change my name, but as I created the poop-files, and all poop=criminals involved, I too am guilty.

All these files are gross.
All these files are horrifying.
All these files are true.

Case #1.
THE EXPLOSION HEARD 'ROUND THE HOSPITAL.
Whenst I became a mother in February of 2004, I was warned about all the poopie diapers I would change. While that is true, I have changed thousands of poopie diapers, no one warned me about the various other poopie things that I would change. Poopie walls. Poopie car seats. Poopie clothes. Poopie couch cushions. Poopie carpet. Hey, now that I am a seasoned mother, as long as its washable, thats fine by me. I had a bit of a hissy when I found out that white silk is not washable, but I had no business wearing white silk with a baby, so thats that. However, the night I first became a mom, all I envisioned was neat little diapers with neat little poop piles that all stayed where it was supposed to, and then it would all be neatly wrapped up, and quietly find its ultimate destiny at the bottom of a trash can. Well, the first night came and went, with no poop at all! Then the second blessed day also went by without a gastric bubble in sight. Wow, I thought. Maybe I am born under a lucky star! I might be that mythical mother who was loved so much by the Gods that she never had to change a single soiled Pamper.
As with most historic epochs, a explosion began my life as NOT that mythical mom. Most of these "explosions" are metaphorical. An explosion of creativity, an explosion of innovative fervor, an explosion of necessity crashing into invention.
Mine was an actual explosion.
Heard 'round the hospital.
As afore stated, I was getting falsely, irrationaly excited about the absence of this essential part of motherhood when the doctor smiled condenscendingly and explained, oh so kindly and patiently, that unfortnately, the baby needed to poop and we would not leave the hospital until it happened. Thus my excitement turned to anxiety and worry. To misquote a cliche, a watched bum never poops. At the end of my second day of parenthood, in the split second that my husband and I were not peering anxiously into that barbie sized diaper, my husband scoopd up our tiny 7 pound being, and. he. EXPLODED. Before I go on, I must note that at that second it did indeed occur to me that the fact that my husband happened to be holding my son meant that I had been born under a lucky star after all.
Anyway, the ensuing clamor over what to do with the bucketful of black slime that was now all over everything, and calming down the patients in the rooms around us who all thought some sick godless lunatic was actually bombing a hospital, really brought it all home.
Poop, a LOT of poop, was in our future.
And it has been a daily joy ever since. : )