Allow me to paint for you all an elaborate literary portrait of motherhood.

You’re sitting in your bed, holding your infant son. You’re soaking him in, admiring the way you do every evening. The thought passes through your mind that he hasn’t pooped all day. Normal for a breastfed baby, but not normal for YOUR baby. Worry festers a bit in the back if your mind.

He’s looking with you at your Facebook newsfeed while you tell him about the pictures of your friends’ babies. Suddenly, the audible vibration that you know is indicative that your baby has FINALLY pooped. A silent pleasure consumes you. You know your baby. He never goes a day without pooping. However, you also know he isn’t finished. You start thumbing through Facebook with him again, pointing out to him the features of your friends’ kids. A couple of minutes pass. The calm before the storm. You finally hear a grunt and a thunderous vibration travels through the fabric of his $20 cloth diaper. You are proud of your son. He is cute and so predictable.

You sit for a moment more to make sure he has sealed the deal. You pick him up and take him to the end of the bed to grab a diaper. There’s a warm spot on your shorts. What would you imagine that warm spot would be? Poop. It was poop. You are startled, but try to be rational and decide to examine your baby before you lay his explosive self on the bed. He looks okay.

You set him down on his back and start to peel off your shorts when you notice his feet - they somehow have poop all over them. You reach for the wipes without realizing you’ve let your shorts drop to the floor. The situation becomes real again when you feel the shorts fall to your feet. Now there’s poop on YOUR feet. You throw a lone wipe onto the bed as you wrestle to get the shorts off without smearing baby feces on anything else. You’re standing there in your underwear as your wiping off the baby’s feet, as well as your own.

During the whole struggle, your husband is pacing across the room, dry heaving like you do after puking from a hangover. You’re screaming at him to leave the room because you know he can’t get to the master bath with you (and the Pack'N Play) standing in between him and the door way. You’re so shocked from the entire situation that you can’t help but laugh because the man you married is so distraught. Instead of leaving the room without a scene, he decides to throw out some jokes about how he isn’t having any more kids.

Something to the effect of:

You: “So…. who’s job is harder?”

Him: “Your job is harder! (gag). Oh God. (gag) I can’t. (gag) Nope. (gag) You will definitely be my last kid. (gag) I’m gonna throw up. (gag) That’s so disgusting. (gag) I’m going to chop my dick off.”

You’re hysterical by now because he is out of control, and also because you’re still in shock. You’re laughing so hard you are sobbing, and when he gets to the whole spill about chopping his dick off, you’ve pissed your pants.

You really should have kept practicing with those fucking Kegels.

Fast forward to now, you’ve fed the baby and given him a bath and he has just fallen asleep on your chest. You’re soaking him in all over again. You realize that, no matter what, this is your favorite part of life and you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.