The Art of the Shart.

Yep, I just said it.

During Milo's first month, it never failed that I would no sooner get a clean diaper on him than his little face would turn beet red and the "gas" that I thought he had already gotten out of his system decided to make another forceful exit- and bring some friends along for the ride. During most diaper changes, I was usually far too concerned with keeping his little man parts covered to consider that there was another "exit" down there that needed guarding. But I've discovered that diapers don't mean a thing, really, and just because parts are covered, doesn't mean you're safe. The other day, I was holding Milo over my shoulder trying to get him to burp. It should also be mentioned that I was sitting on the couch with a bath towel, draped only partially over me because I was halfway through my shower when he decided to start screaming. Since he's always been a bit of a gassy baby to begin with, I wasn't too surprised when he bunched his legs up and started grunting. But I will know better next time.

It took me half a second to realize that something warm and sticky was on my face. In my hair. On my nose and upper lip. In my EYE. Oh GOD, in my EYE.

And it's amazing what goes through your mind in the 2.5 seconds that follow a poop bomb that explodes in your face. After all, this is my own flesh and blood. This is my heart. But he just sharted in. my. face. And in that one instant, I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. Instead, I just sat there on the couch, paralyzed, afraid to move for fear that I would discover it in more places. And then I started to gag. People who know me well can attest that even though I have a strange and intense fear of throwing up, I hardly EVER do and I have a fairly strong gag reflex. But this nearly pushed me over the edge. In fact, I think I would have rather been thrown up on than this- and that's a BOLD statement coming from me.

So after another shower and a delicate attempt to put hand-sanitizer all over my face (hmmm...alcohol and eyeballs are never a good combo), I recovered. And he just grinned at me. He knew exactly what he'd done. But I think that I do, in fact, have the upper hand. When he comes to me 13 years from now and asks why he has to clean his room/go to school/go to bed early, I'll say, "because I'm your mother and I said so. And because you sharted in my face when you were 2 months old. So there."