The Time Someone Else Shat My Pants

I remember one day, when my son was only 2,5 months old, I crawled out of bed after another sleepless night. My baby coos at me, and my heart melts. We just slept the whole night together (or I tried to, anyway), but the day he has to go to daycare, and I go back to work, is fast approaching. So I feel the urge to grab some extra quality time.

I take off his clothes and my shirt so we can have maximum skin-to-skin contact. I let out a peaceful sigh. This is some real mom bliss right here. My baby looks up at me and seems to share the feeling. “Is that a smile, my beautiful boy?” I exclaim proudly. But then, his face suddenly contorts into a grimace. The unmistakable sound of a dirty diaper fills the air. “Guess it was just gas,” I laugh.

But then I feel something wet. Another poop explosion. I shuffle clumsily off the couch, and in horror, I see a whole smear of poop all over it. To make matters worse, the wetness keeps creeping into my clothes. As I look down, I realize something entirely new: this is the first time someone else has shat my pants.