Last year my husband and I welcomed our second child, G. G's big brother, D was a little reticent. I did my best to integrate G's activities into the routine that was already established for D. I thought this would help D view his brother in a more positive light, would reduce resentment and make things run smoothly. Consequently, there were days when I was really pressed for time, especially when D began attending the 3-year-old preschool program in our community. Twice a week I dropped D off at school and picked him up 2 hours later.
Sounds simple, right?
Now factor in that I was nursing an infant every 2 1/2 to 3 hours for about a 1/2 hour stretch each time. So on school days I would get D and myself up, dressed and fed and then wake G, get him dressed and nurse him just prior to walking out the door. This gave me just enough time to pick D back up from school and get him home before G started wailing in earnest for his lunch. Most days we ran pretty tight, but we managed.
One morning in the late fall I got D up, spent a little one on one time with him as he was getting ready then set him at the table with his breakfast. Most mornings G would start making his presence known but this particular morning he was quiet and I thanked my lucky stars for the chance to take things at a slightly slower pace. I think I may even have had time to sit down and actually ENJOY my cup of coffee (decaf of course).
Eventually I hit that time where I had to wake G up and get him ready or miss getting a decent parking spot and have to drag two kids a block or more in the crisp morning air. There still hadn't been a sound from G and I regretted having to wake him from such a peaceful sleep. I find that my kids do better if they wake up on their own, when I do it for them they can be a bit disagreeable.
I open the door to G's room. There he is sitting up in his crib, wide awake as happy as can be. He is content, joyous even. For a brief moment he smiles at me.
Then he sees the look of absolute horror and revulsion on my face and begins to cry.
I wanted to join him.
My beautiful, happy, baby boy had kicked out of the legs of his sleeper and pulled his diaper open. He had been spending those quiet moments in his crib reflecting on his existence and then immortalizing it all in art work upon his crib wall and bars, his sheet, his face and the Fisher Price Soothing Sounds Aquarium. I had but one thought in my head.
How much of it has he eaten?
I leave him in the crib and grab the phone. I call my mother-in-law who thankfully lives about 2 1/2 minutes away.
"I need you here. NOW."
I offer no explanations. There isn't time.
I spring to into action. I strip him inside his crib, doing my best to limit further contamination of what is around him. I plop him in the bath tub and turn on the tap. What is the correct temperature for removing excrement from your child? Somehow I don't think "Your Baby's First Year" covers that topic. I didn't have the luxury of stopping for a reference check anyway.
I decide on a two bath strategy.
Bath one to remove the solids - and there were a lot of them.
Since the tub and child were now completely contaminated. The naked baby got plopped on a towel while I used scalding water and disinfectant wipes to sterilize the tub. Thank God he wasn't crawling yet.
Bath two was the soap down and rinse.
By this time reinforcement has arrived. I hand the clean, sweet smelling baby to my mother-in-law and warn her not to enter the nursery. By this time, however, big brother has already chronicled the event for his grandmother with the typical tact of a 3-year old.
"G pooped all over his crib. It's yucky!"
With these words being repeated at thirty seconds intervals I load D in the car while my mother-in-law fed G some yummy wall paper paste - I mean rice cereal. Somehow I manage to get D to school on time and back home to nurse G and clean and disinfect the crib cleaned.
From that point on G only wore sleepers that zipped up.
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