Now that I’ve been a mother for a year and three months, I have gotten pretty used to the yucky side of parenthood. Luckily, Freya wasn’t much of a puker, and when she did spit up, it was just harmless breastmilk.

Tonight I took her upstairs for a diaper change after dinner. Little did I know she had produced an unholy quantity of poop. She did it secretly, while in her highchair. I recoiled not from the sight of so much shit, but because I immediately had to figure out how I was going to dispose of it while holding Freya’s legs aloft and wiping her bottom. Unfortunately I did not place the dirty diaper far enough away from the changing pad, and I lost control of one of Freya’s feet, which of course landed squarely in the poop.

Sorry for the gross story, but it just made me think of how unfazed I am by stuff like this, and how I just (relatively) calmly dealt with it, cleaned her up, dressed her, and went on with our evening. I think an untrained person, a non-parent, faced with all that, would likely suffer and whine and freak out. Like, say, me two years ago.