Ollie is in a bout against the poops. The loosy-goosey kind that stains shirts and burns bottoms. Poor little dude.
It started Sunday night when his bottle was punctuated by an unusual poo, and every bottle since has had an attitude.
So I called the doctor and was told that if it lasts longer than two weeks (two weeks!?) that we should come in. Ridiculous. There’s no way I’m letting his bum and belly go through this before taking some sort of action.
The kind of action that includes diet change and sneaking into his room to check his diaper while he’s asleep.
I am *that* mom who’s becoming interested…no…intrigued by the state of his diaper in these past few days. Any fart, growl, bubble, gurgle, and grumble that his belly does has my ears perked up like a German Shepherd. “What’s that, Ollie’s belly? Whaddyasay? Huh? HUH? *wags tail*
Whatever he’s doing, I lift and sniff.
Last night, while trying to go to sleep, I lay there, thinking about the Ollie-bottom. What if there’s poop? I’m going to let it sit there, all night, eating away at the skin?
I’m not that kind of mom.
So I sneak in, armed with a diaper, washcloth, ButtCream and a flashlight and confident in my Grinch-like creeping abilities. I delicately tiptoe to his crib. I carefully unsnap his pajamas, lift away the diaper from his dupa, and quick-like-a-bunny, shine the light to see what lurks.
Snap! Snap! Snap! go the jammies and I skulk back out.
He never knew I was there.
I shoulda been a ninja.