Sophie has had the poops the last several days. I'm sorry, I know no one wants to hear about it, but when you're spending as much time with it as I am, you become sort of immune to it. In fact, even the word has lost its punch. Poop. Poopie. Shadoobie. Doodie. It's all the same.
An unfortunate consequence of this is that she has also developed a really nasty diaper rash. Believe you me, I have been changing her diaper the minute her little ass puckers up, but evidently not fast enough to prevent the rash. I was using Desitin, but she screamed when I put it on, which keen intuitivist that I am, I took to mean she didn't like it. So I switched to Boudreaux's Butt Paste. She didn't scream when I put it on, but the rash didn't seem to improve either. Now I'm using A & D ointment and that seems to be doing good things.
This afternoon I needed to take a shower, so I put her in her crib while I was in there. If I leave the bathroom door and her door open, I can just see her. Since she would be contained in a relatively, um, mess-proof environment, I decided to follow the advice of a friend and leave her commando while I showered. Give her girliebits some airing out. A dangerous prospect given her digestive issues of late, but I felt reasonably confident we wouldn't have any accidents.
Approximately every 4.2 seconds, I leaned out of the shower to look at her and yell, "Please don't poop!" Praying that she heard (and understood) the DON'T in my entreaty. While it would have made for some great blog fodder (and a really awful mess), I am happy to report that her 15 minutes of commando was a success.
Unfortunately, in my distracted state I'm pretty sure I washed my hair with my husband's Old Spice Hair and Body Wash.
In case you're wondering, it's not right for me.