Warning: Do not continue to read this post if you have a weak stomach, can’t seem to laugh when you hear the word poo, or think it’s impolite to talk about the bodily functions of an infant. And if you decide to turn away from this post, then please also choose to not have children. Because, quite frankly, you just won’t survive.
Trifecta premiered in our daughter’s early infancy, and as her mother, I can honestly say, I have been lucky enough to have dodged one so far. My husband? Not so fortunate. A handful of trifectas hit him hard within the first few months of fatherhood, when our newborn decided to test her daddy’s problem solving skills with bodily ammunition.
I’ll never forget the debut trifecta, and I’m sure my husband won’t either…
It was a hot day in July, we lived in a modest 3 bedroom apartment in Bridgeport, and I was in the living room pumping. Our brown leather couch was covered with splotches of breast milk. Even though I wiped it clean often, milk just seemed to appear on its own. I had my usual provisions- a stack of magazines, my hospital grade pump, a tub full of little bottles and nipples, a glass of water, and a tube of nipple cream. Adam was taking care of diaper duties, in Claire’s nursery, which was the first room off of the living area.
“Oh, man,” he sighed, loud enough for me to hear him over the annoyingly, far from subtle, drone of the pump.
“What, babe?” I asked.
“She peed all over.”
We had one of those cute, soft, pink and white polka-dot fleece covers on the changing table. A little luxury feature that turned out to be more of a pain than a pleasure. That thing got washed more times in a minute than the favorite, raggedy, shredded up t-shirt my husband has refused to throw out for the past 10 years.
“Do you need help?” I offered.
“No, I’ll just move her to a dry spot.” Claire was an adorable, tiny infant, weighing in at 6lbs at the time. Knowing that Adam could handle our little peanut and her baby pee, I continued to pump and catch up on my mommy mags. A minute later, I heard Adam again.
“Oh, man,” this time sounding a bit stronger and a little more annoyed.
“Now, she pooped all over.”
“I’m running out of dry space on the changing table,” he continued.
I was only an ounce into my pumping session, and I really didn’t want to have to start the ritual over.
“Do you need help?”
“No, I’ll take care of it.”
What a great daddy. I could hear his gag reflex going off, and could only imagine the sight and the smell he was experiencing. I was trying to keep my giggles quiet, containing my naturally nervous laughter. A few more minutes go by, and my milk started flowing like mother’s gold. I was in the zone. Until…
“Oh, man,” a third calling came from the nursery.
I could tell from the tone of Adam’s voice it was bad.
“Now she’s puked all over. It’s officially a trifecta. There’s no clean or dry space to put her. And she’s not clean or dry either.”
“Do you need help?”
So, I packed up the pump, braced myself for what was to come, and headed into the nursery. What a stinky mess. Claire’s peach-fuzz hair was matted with puke, while poop had somehow managed to shoot itself halfway up the wall. I took our little bambina straight to the bathtub while Adam gagged away as he scrubbed the trifecta out of the nursery.
Ah, the things my daughter’s daddy does for her, and for me, his baby’s momma. Love you babe!