If they gave out medals for the moments when, as parents, we rise above and go beyond the call of duty, surely I would have earned one this morning.
Our Little Bear was sleeping late this morning. I went in her room to wake her up and was hit by a strong, acid-like scent at the door. The smell was all too familiar. She stood up in her crib and professed her hunger. I stood by her crib and professed my dismay. Her diaper had obviously leaked. But the smell? I put her on the changing pad. I unzipped her fuzzy, pink jammies. I gasped.
Her diaper had not leaked. Her diaper had exploded.
The entire inside of her pajamas was covered in sick toddler poo.
There are stories, epic stories, that recount the heroic feats of men. Long ago, stories would be told around the fire of great dragons slain and mighty oceans crossed. These men of action became legends of folk tales. Today I proudly ascend to join them on their historic mountain. Today I scraped a metric ton of poop from my daughter and lived to tell the tale. Barely.
I gave her a bubble bath, I washed stinky, gooey laundry, I washed a vinyl mattress with rubbing alcohol. It doesn't sound like much, but you can trust me when I tell you that it's a lot like saying Sir Edmund Hillary went on a nature walk.
You can just pin that medal here.