December 5, 2007

An Epic Blowout

Posted in epic blowouts, food at 10:22 pm by Michael

Since this event was so special it required its own special entry. I’ve even created a whole new Word Press category for this entry “epic blowouts”.

WARNING: This post is gross. Grosser than surgery. Grosser than boys becoming girls. But just DAMN FUNNY. I have not made any of this up, or stretched the truth on this in any way, shape or form. May the Flying Spaghetti Monster strike me dead.

You were warned.

Biohazard Symbol

Tonight, after a fantastic day (more on that in the previous entry – that should be read first) we went to have dinner at Incanto ( the Noe Valley. Anh brought congee for the Samwich man since he loved it so much at lunch. We had been 36 hours w/o either bi-directional alimentary canal action, or a blowout.

After finding out that alcohol and antibiotics didn’t have bad interactions (lots of research today), we decided that we were going to have some good good wine. We ordered a ’96 Barbaresco (only $65),

Soon after that, we ordered the antipasti and a salad. Soon after they came and I had started to serve, Anh said “Samwich Pooped”. As is our normal practice, when Samwich poops and we are out to dinner, I deal with it. Since she deals with the vast majority of his expulsions while I’m at work, I feel like it’s only fair.

I get my jacket (for him to lie on while changing), the wipes and a new diaper. I go to the women’s room (woo hoo), and find a stall that I can deal with him in.

I start the process… take down his pants, unbutton his ones-ie, and undo his diaper. Now, we have been careful with him for the past four days because we think he has rotavirus (and like Typhoid Mary has infected a bunch of people – me and Anh included – even with extreme measures. There’s only so much you can do when you get puked on.) We’ve given him watered down formula, full strength formula, and then for the past 36 hours, smaller amounts of soft, modest food. As a result, his poop is, well, its formula poop – it’s pretty loose.

As I take off his diaper, I notice that there is some leakage upward – up the back. It’s a blowout.

Ok… now it’s a little harder, but no prob, I’ve done this a bunch of times, I have a whole process worked out for how to deal with this.

As I lift up his bum, to expose the extent of the blowout, I notice that it DOES NOT STOP. It’s gone all the way to his shoulders.

This is trouble.

Big trouble.

Recently, Samwich has had a penchant for trying to act like a log in a log rolling competition while being changed. This time however, he had decided that he had inflicted all possible pain on me, and would relent. He is wise beyond his years.

Ok, I now have to go for the “gross-mess-ectomy”. Trying to remove the vast majority of the yuk as rapidly as possible. Note that he is still on my one and only jacket.

So, I grab some wipes, having to use the toe of my shoe to hold down the wipes, while trying to pry out wipes one at a time. (One at a time because I DO NOT WANT TO RUN OUT.) My other hand on Samwich’s belly at all times, attempting to guard against potential log-rolling-action, which would likely spray rotavirus-encrusted excrement in a 50 yard range. I cannot be held responsible for that. Not on my watch.

As I do the gross-mess-ectomy, I simultaneously try to roll the ones-ie up (inverted, keeping the “cleaner” (HA HA HA) side out), and slide him down off my jacket so my jacket somehow escapes this complete debacle.

At some point, I get his bum off the jacket, and somewhat “clean”, at this point, sit him him, and at this point determine that I’m touching poop. I’m just going to have to touch poop. A fundamental parenting tenant is “Don’t touch poop”. No good comes from this. However, there’s no way that I can’t “Don’t Touch Poop”, but at the same time not coat his hair in poop as I pull the poop-encrusted ones-ie over his head. I choose not to encrust his hair in poop, so I decide to touch poop. I reach behind his back, and yes, I touched poop. A ton of poop. In fact, a shitload of poop. I had to pull the ones-ie away from his back and try to find some way to get this over his head without smearing the crap all over him. After a few different angles, a protractor, four-dimensional calculus, and differential equations, I found a way, and got it off.

At this point, lets review the current status:

One baby. One restroom. Wearing socks only. Poop still on his back – up to the shoulders.

I stand him up (he’s a rockstar at that), against my knee, (my knee is at his high chest level – he’s using his hands to steady himself) and do the shoe-toe-wipe-trick repeatedly to continue getting wipes and attempting to wipe him down to remove the last vestiges of the poop-tastrophe.

At this point, I think to myself (jokingly), the only thing that could make this better is if he peed.

Before the words finished reverberating in my brain (I didn’t say it out loud, I promise), I look down, and guess what, he’s peeing. A lot. The pee is moving toward my butt. Quickly.

I skooch around to avoid the pee-river, and pledge to deal with this later.

I continue to do the fine-mess-ectomy, and remove the vast majority of the poop. I then lay out the diaper, put it on my jacket, and put him back on it. I wipe him one last time, and then rediaper him. I put his shirt on, but then look at the pants. Oh Crap! They’ve got stuff on ‘em too. We don’t have backup pants with us… So, I take a wipe, wipe em off, then dry them with TP, and call it good. Combat rules apply.

I put on his pants, and then his shoes, then gingerly open the door, grab a bunch of paper towels, and grab the three cubic feet of waste that he’s created, attempt to wrap it (bless you person who takes out the trash tonight. Bless you.) and then trash it.

I then make another trip to the paper towel dispenser to grab a set to grab the totally poop encrusted ones-ie, which I need to deal with.

I use the paper towels (which come from trees, I know!), grab the infected mass, grab the boy, grab the few remaining wipes, and go back to the dining room.

I’ve been gone for 20 minutes.

That’s a long frigging time to change a baby.

Anh and James look at me and I say [COMMENT DELETED].

I give Samwich to Anh, and go back to the women’s room to wash out the ones-ie.

As I get in there, I can hear that there’s someone else in there, finishing up. I start rinsing and washing out the infested clothing, soap and all. We do have to carry this home after all. As I’m doing this, the woman in the room comes up beside me (two sinks), and gives me this look like “Who the hell are you, and what ungodly act are you performing?” (see pictures from today – pass? Me? Not so much.) Sacrificing a goat in a g-string would have generated a less acidic glance.

Anyway, I finish, get some more paper towels to wrap the now wet, but less poopy ones-ie, and I depart.

I walk back to the table, and I walk up to Anh’s seat, who’s still holding Samwich, and I put the ones-ie under her chair.

Anh says to me “You could have thrown it away!”

I was thinking, “What, the Baby? Not the Samwich!”


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