Oh no! Not again. Countinuing tales from the diaper pail.

 Yes ladies and gentlemen it's time for another stomach churning installment of 'Tales from the Diaper Pail'. While picking up my youngest to make room for the 8 year old to get out the door and catch the school bus I became aware of a none to nice odoriferousness wafting from his tiny self. So I take him to the changing table and clean him up, not a pleasant thing mind you but run of the mill, nothing like what was to come. Instead of sliding his pj's back on I thought I'd be a good thoughtful husband and go ahead and get the little one dressed. So the two of us go upstairs, he's walking around  in his diaper playing while I pick out an outfit for him. A minute passes, a minute, he walks around the side of the bed looking as though he is a native of some deep Congo tribe, his body painted with war paint. I say, "What have you got all over you?" He doesn't say anything but looks at me with this funny look on his face as if he were saying, "Well, I've never tried this before. It seems a little strange. What do you think?"
To which I answer, "Is that... (oh god, please don't let it be) poop?". Oh holy mother of God, it is poop!
I grab him by the arm and lead him around the side of the bed and to my utmost horror there lies a puddle, yes puddle, of poop. My gag reflex kicks in and I almost loose my breakfast, but I'm an old hand at this by now, so I bite back down the rising bile and spring into action. It's a triage. First remove the fecal body paint from the little monster, second get him diapered (and dressed this time), third clean. And then clean some more, and still a little more. Not the way I wanted to start my day, but thus is the joy of parent-hood, I just hope my pain and nausea can entertain and amuse my readers.