There’s something foul in Bronson’s bowl.
I know. TMI, but this is my life – toddler poo and goo and toddler demands opposed to parental commands. Just be glad I didn’t include an image.
I don’t know what’s awry in his digestive tract, but I do know that his belly-bound-brother is seriously offended. So much so, he kicks my gag reflex into gear every time I try to change Bronson’s diaper. As if the poo isn’t disgusting enough.
There were a few miraculous days where Ryan changed every poopy diaper – Bronson’s display of impeccable timing. But then I was alone. And there it was – a coping mechanism.
I sniff powder.
The kind that’s cornstarch clothed in pink. I take a hit of baby powder before I change his diaper, and I liberally take additional hits as needed. A mother’s got to do what a mother’s got to do.
Don’t judge. I really don’t think you’ve ever smelt anything quite like this.