Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Wednesday's Blog Topic: Baby Poop

Jimmy, Maria (Bri), Paul, Ellenmary, Kathleen
Christmas 1979
I tossed out a request for blog suggestions and this seems to be the hands down favorite...baby poop.  It's going to be a very good day.

I'm the fourth of five children.  The fifth and final baby was born to my parents eleven years after myself.  I wanted a dog for Christmas.  Instead, my mother had the audacity to announce I was getting a brother named, Jimmy.  Really?  This was supposed to be funny?  This was a good thing for an adolescent tomboy?  Nope.  Try again, please.

Where was this screaming, pooping bundle of obnoxiousness supposed to go anyway?  Everyone had a place in our house.  How were we possibly going to squeeze another human being into an already crowded home?  What in the heck were mom and dad possibly thinking?  Besides, how did this happen? 

Needless to say, I knew nothing about how babies were made.  I was absolutely clueless.

My dear friends and blog readers, imagine my shock and dismay when the naked bumps of a couple of Ken and Barbie dolls were unceremoniously slammed together in explanation. I was in the back of a van on the way to a Catholic school junior league volleyball game for Pete's sake!  I was not expecting this information.  It was a startling revelation to say the least.

"NOOOOO!!  My parents don't have bumps like that?!"
"My bump doesn't look like that?"
"Geesh, wouldn't that be uncomfortable?"
"That's totally DISGUSTING! "
"How does a baby happen out of that
"Is that why my mom has been wearing those stupid Hawaiian Muumuus lately?"

So many questions left unasked, unanswered, or totally and completely communicated ass backwards.  No wonder I wandered through most of my early sexual years completely baffled.

On Easter weekend, 1978, my brother James Robert came home.   He was raised by five people; his parents, Richard and Maryellen, three sisters, Ellenmary (age 16), Kathleen (age 13), Maria (myself - also known as, Bri - age 11), and brother Paul (age 14).  What a crazy, mixed up family this little boy grew up in.  Surprisingly, he seems to have turned out alright. 

Of course, he suffered through all the major indignities; being dropped on his head (that would be my fault, times two), dressed like a sissy in mini tuxedos (mom owns this one), and having acquired the talent of sucking his thumb while publicly twiddling his "woohoo" up to the awkward and tender age of three.  The horrifying part is that we - his siblings - are old enough to remember these events and will never, ever let him live them down (i.e., this blog).

You see, I believe that we owe him a wee bit of pain.  When he was born, my mother was in her early forties.  Mama was quite done with changing poopy diapers by the time we older ones were out of them so she felt we needed to learn the skill...and we certainly did...the hard way.

The first time I changed kid brother's nasty business I remember thinking, "Didn't I just feed him this jar of peas?"  Once I managed to accidently smear some poop on my chin.  I didn't notice it for several hours because I was alone with the baby.  When my sister came home, she pointed at my face and howled with laughter. Lovely.  And the SMELL!  It never truly leaves, does it?  It's like cat pee; it hangs in the air and on your clothes forever.  I'd go out with friends and the smell of a baby's ass covered in Desitin would follow me everywhere. 

There was a time when I couldn't imagine what Jimmy would be like when he grew up.  Would he be a spoiled, entitled adult?  After all, my parents gave in to his every whim and his brother and sisters spoiled, loved, and coddled him every chance we could.  I guess we did something right because he represents the best of each and every one of us.  I couldn't be prouder.  I love you, little brother.

By the way kiddo, I'm glad I didn't get that dog after all.