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The Shit-uation

Things happen to me that don’t seem to befall other people. Embarrassing things. Like walking across a college campus of 40k+ students with my skirt tucked up underneath my backpack. Or falling in front of the entire school during Jr. High cheerleader try-outs, attempting my first ever cartwheel. You know, those kinds of things. Perhaps others DO have similar experiences. Perhaps they’re just smart enough not to share their em-bare-assed-ments with others. I unfortunately do not possess such filters.

Six years ago, I became a mother to the (my) world’s most precious and perfect baby boy. Since becoming his mom (and his sister’s two years later), I’ve experienced previously unimagined levels of excrement. I mean excitement. Ok, both. I can vividly recall, three months a mother, sitting on my fairly new couch, feeding my fairly new son. Admiring his perfection, and my embodiment of all things motherly. I was freaking Lady Madonna, baby at my breast. (Yes, sorry. This is about boobs, butts and more. So if you’re bodily function averse, I suggest you stop reading now).

In hindsight, all of my “don’t happen to others” occurrences were preceded by moments like these. Moments where I feel like the bomb.

Noelle 1994, Texas A&M University: “Damn I look good in my new outfit from The Limited.”

Noelle 1987, Porter Junior High: “I’m certain God will help me defy gravity if only for today.”

Noelle 2012, My Couch. “Man, I’ve got this mother thing down.”

It was in this moment of bliss that my son eliminated. Not abnormal. However, this bowl movement was so forceful that it immediately shot shit from his precious and perfect little bottom, through his precious (and obviously imperfect) diaper all over my precious and perfect moment and my previously precious and perfect couch. From Madonna to mere mortal in one fell poop, I leapt with my crap-covered cutie to address the shit-uation. I strapped him to his changing table and commenced cleaning. He was covered. I mean covered. Perfect knees, elbows, toes, belly button - all lathered in a frothy yellow, putrid water. I don’t know if it truly smelled worse than usual or if the sheer volume magnified the stench. But still, I was able to hold it together. Until. Until I looked at myself.

Upon glancing at my still-unsheathed breast I saw that it too, was covered in baby Grey Poupon. Until this point, the closest I’d ever come to a Cleveland Steamer was seeing reports of hot, humid Ohio temperatures on TV. Yet there I stood. It. Was. Too. Much. Thus ensued gag reflexes and dry heaves. By themselves? Not issues. But I just had a baby. The “natural way”. To say things were not “right” down there would be an understatement, proved as the pressure from my guttural heaves forced puddles of urine out my bladder, down my legs, and on the floor.

So here we were. My son, couch and I covered in crap. My floor, clothes and I soaked in piss. I did the only thing I knew to do. Inaugurate the mommy/baby bath. It was one of our best moments. He loved it. I loved it. We were both cleansed of our previous filth and I scrubbed two to-dos from my never-ending list. That’s what I call a win, win. I was once again, the bomb.

As we emerged clean and victorious, my perfect and precious son looked at me with adoration, glamoured me with his mega-watt smile, and peed.

A version of this post originally appeared on - photo!

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