Oh. My. GOD.

WARNING: This post is not for pregnant people or anyone with a light gag reflex. Seriously. Okay, you have been warned so no bitchin' if you keep going.

Bonnie.

So cute. So cuddly.

So pretty and soft and sweet-smelling. Well, except for her toxic ass. Good LORD, what a morning.

I woke up like a kid on Christmas morning, all excited for Jack to have his cast removed. Eff you, Monday, it's gonna be a great day! Yeah, I'm an idiot. Don't I know better than to challenge Fate like that?

Off the boys went to the hospital for the x-ray. Bon and I waved gaily and then settled down for some quiet time, her in her exersaucer and me tuning in to the latest episode of the real-life soap opera known as "As the Facebook Turns." ("One Life to Facebook"? "The Young and the Facebook"? "Days of Our Facebook"? Whatever. I digress. As Usual.)

So yeah, we're relaxing when all of a sudden, Happy Girl turns into The Bonster Monster. Weird, it's not nap time yet. Oh well, she didn't sleep much yesterday so that could be making her cranky. I check her out and, Mother of all things good and holy, the smell. Putrid. Like rancid yogurt but worse, much worse. Indescribably worse. I pick her up and she's squishy, never a good sign. Like totally-up-her-back squishy. Oh shit. Literally.

We rush off to her room and I toss her on the changing table. Untape the diaper and hmmm, not much to speak of. Strange. Then I pull up her legs to give her heiney a wipe and there it is -- the motherlode. It looked liked an entire daycare room of infants got together and all used her diaper. After giving props to her super colon and taking a moment to plan my attack, I dug in. Literally. With my nails. Total accident, there was no way to get a hold on her! Fucking gross. (That's one way to stop biting my cuticles, right?) I gave a big wipe and then tried to ball up the wipey and put it under her so the clean part wouldn't land back in the poo. She immediately grabs the wipe and tries to eat it. With suddenly lightening quick reflexes, I grab it a millesecond before it hits her lips.

At this point, I'm glad I gave birth to an infant and not a parrot because for the rest of today, I'd be hearing, "Ewwww, BON! That's fucking NASTY!!!" *sigh* Let's hope she doesn't pick her first word out of that sentence and if she does, that she doesn't repeat it in front of my Gram.

Back to the mess. So I clean her cheeks as best I can, then pull up the back of her onesie to see how far the poo goes. It went further than I ever saw poo go and that's saying something considering my other children's infant nicknames: Volcano Butt and Poop Rocket. I roll the decimated onesie up into itself in a futile attempt to keep from spreading the mess to her neck and hair.

Doesn't work. It's bathtime, kiddo.

At this point, Bonnie is furious. Be it the foul language, stench or manhandling from her normally gentle mother, something has set her off and she's pissed (not to be confused with pissed ON which I will be momentarily.) She's yelling and I'm still muttering all of the words I learned from the kitchen staff at Samuel Pancake House all those summers ago. Miraculously, Natalie continued to sleep through it all.

An entire box of wipes will not make my child clean. A Sam's Club carton couldn't do the job so off to the tub we went after I wiped her down as best I could to avoid transferring the brown stuff onto myself. (A mother's love is infinite but still, that shit was fucking gross. No need for us both to be wearing it.)

I toss her baby tub into the big tub. I turn the water on full blast. Suddenly, I'm warm and wet even though I'm not near the spray. Seriously, what did I think would happen when I carried her naked to the bathroom, all to save $.37 by not using another diaper? *sigh* Oh Bon, when I said I needed a shower, I didn't mean one of the golden variety.

Into the tub she went. For once, I was thanking my lucky stars for our tiny bathroom which enabled me to rinse the wash cloth in the sink while keeping a hand on her. No way I was using the tub water -- just b/c you can't see the feces doesn't mean it's not there. I got her fresh as a daisy (which today means as fresh as a person not covered in her own excrement), cleaned myself as best I could without a sand blaster and then tackled the mess in her room aka Ground Zero. Onesie, shorts and changing pad, all in the trash. Her room still smells like Baby which mothers know is not actually the sweet scent people think it is but rather a pungent combo of spoiled milk, slobber and shit.

It wasn't even 8:00 a.m. yet. Hey, Monday, you listening? Yeah, fuck you. Mommy needs a shower. And a nanny.

Motherhood -- not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach. Seriously.