Aw, shart.

Of course, on a weekend when we had plans-plans-plans, I wake up to find the boy in a wet puddle with a huge shart stain on his ass.

Oh. I’m sorry. Was that delivery too direct? Forgive me.

We were supposed to go to a baby shower today and then my high school ten-year reunion tonight. Instead, I’m dealing with a child that is a’splodin’ from both ends.

It’s not quite diarrhea, but it’s pretty fucking disgusting. I went to the store this morning to get Immodium, Pedialyte and PullUps.

“Uhm, are you talking about putting a diaper on me, mom?”

“It’s not even really a diaper. It’s disposable underpants.”

“It looks like a diaper.” He is clearly mortified. Almost eight years old and his mother is making him revert back to diapers.

But whatever, kid. I’ve already had to hand-rinse out two pairs of your underpants because of… the sharting.

So, he begrudgingly puts on the “diaper” and immediately starts giggling. He waddles over to me, making that diaper-crinkling noise, and says, “What’s this? There’s this airbag back here.” He was talking, of course, about the little space reserved for his impending diaper-filling shit.

The worst of it is behind us (heh, see what I did there?) but the sharting isn’t much more fun than dealing with the actual diarrhea. The smell alone is enough to give me a wretching-fit.

So he’s over here, filling up my living room with noxious gasses and I think he’s done it again so I go and do that peek-in-the-back-of-the-diaper maneuver. (Still got the baby skillz)

He turns his head from his toys and says, “Airbag didn’t deploy. I’m just farting.”

HA! Seriously. This kid is funny.