The Manure-icure

So my daughter likes sitting in poop.

I mean, I assume she does, considering every time she has a dirty diaper and I dare to look in her direction, she screams, “ALL DRY!  ALL DRY!” — then runs three feet away in hopes that I’ll forget about the dirty diaper by the time she reaches her destination.  But here’s the thing about toddler poop:  it makes cow manure smell like daisies in comparison.  There is no forgetting about the dirty diaper.  Not as long as I have a nose.

“You don’t want to sit in a poopy diaper, do you?” I always ask even though I know my question will be met with a blank expression that suggests, Well, kind of.  “Of course not,” I answer myself, picking up a kicking and screaming toddler and hauling her to the diaper changing table.  But here’s the thing about toddlers:  they are freakishly strong*.  Trying to change a pissed off two-year-old is like wrestling a wild boar, only less pleasant.  Skye breaks out moves that would make Hulk Hogan proud, deftly escaping my grip and managing to turn face-down as I take off her diaper.  You know what that means, don’t you?  Poop smeared on her thighs, up her back — AND UNDER MY FINGERNAILS.

I can tell you from experience there aren’t enough wipes in the world to effectively remove fingernail poop.  At this point, the stench has traveled from my fingertips to my brain, making the room spin.

“Please… Skylar… sit… still…” I instruct, unwisely gasping for air.  Sensing my weakness, Skylar does a Tasmanian Devil spin and triumphantly STANDS UP on the diaper changing table.  She does a little victory dance for good measure.  Meanwhile, I’m attempting to clean the mess from her backside before it hits the wall.  I try not to think about my fingernails, lest I actually lose consciousness.

Holding my daughter to prevent her from falling from the table with one hand, wiping stubborn poop from her dancing legs and butt with the other, I wonder how things can possibly get worse.

Fast forward to this weekend, when Mr. Candy emerged from Skye’s room after her nap time, the color drained from his face and her sheets dangling from his hands.

“Poop… in crib…no diaper…”

Well, in Skye’s defense, I did tell her she didn’t want to sit in a poopy diaper.

*Except when asked to pick up their toys.  Their arm muscles suddenly grow weak then.