I never thought I would be feeling nostalgia over poop. While I do fondly remember one time in Vegas where I think I emptied the entirety of my intestines in one fell poop and it was awesome, I had no idea that it was possible to have that heavenward-gaze, deep-sigh, those-were-the-days relationship with fecal matter.
And then I started Westley on solid food.
Good Lord. My sweet-smelling baby is now a tiny man person, foul smells and all. A full diaper is more than just messy. Gone are the days of simple, digested milk poo. Now, things are sticky and smelly, and inconsistent. It used to be that almost every diaper was a double feature. Very predictable, the same plot over and over, unless I'd eaten a lot of broccoli. Now, each diaper change has the makings of a tiny suspense horror film. It's Jaws. We know the shark is coming, but we still jump when we actually see it.
Fortunately, Westley's ever-expanding diet means that poop is no longer aerodynamic. Thing #35,761 I wish I'd known in advance: milk poo can rocket across the room. I haven't had to wipe down the wall next to the changing table recently. Chalk one up for the new Number Two.