I had planned on writing about a different topic, but once I saw what Steph wrote (she has a penchant for poo), I decided to go in another direction. Feel free to blame her for this post.
When I was a baby, my parents couldn't take me out without having a couple of changes of clothes for me. Shoes, too. Yes, I had a special way of not only filling my diaper, but having it go up my back and all the way down into my shoes. And in case you're wondering, yes, my daughter did pay me back in full for that. With interest. Anyway, I was a pooping machine.
One day, my mom took me into the bedroom to change my diaper and laid me down on the changing table in the corner of the room. In the other room (because my dad never changed a diaper *insert guilt here*), my dad heard a shriek and then laughter. He came into the room to find my mom holding my legs up in the air, mid-change, and a large amount of poop dripping down the wall my rear end was facing. Explosive. That's what it was. It's a good thing babies are cute, huh? And no, that didn't entice my dad into changing any diapers in the future. Go figure.
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