Diaper Blowouts

This past New Years Eve, Emily (pregnant with Gus) and I went over to our dear friends Steve and Dana's place. Dan and Jess, stubbornly still living in Chicago, came up for the weekend too and brought along with them Ella Claire, my favorite Goddaughter, who at the time was 9 months old.
At one point in the evening, Jess disappeared down the hall to change Ella's diaper. Some time elapsed, and then Jess was calling down the hall way for Dan to come and give her a hand. At least 30 more minutes elapsed before Dan and Jess emerged with Ella in tow. Dan was now just wearing a t-shirt, and Jess had changed her clothes as well. Naively, I wondered what could possibly have happened in there? Jess said two words: diaper blowout.

Diaper blowout? Surely that was an overstatement. How could somebody as adorable as Ella (below) create such a mess in her diaper so as to require both parents sets of hands and both parents to change their clothes?

I now know cuteness bears no relation to ability to cause a stink or to cause the dreaded diaper blowout. The Gus Man was on a particular roll last week, successfully pooping on his clothes on at least five occassions, culminating with a diaper changing fiasco this past Sunday, with yours truly suffering the brunt of it.

Emily wanted to run an errand, and I stayed at home to put Gus to bed. As I was holding him and rocking him, I felt something warm on my shirt (I was holding him facing out), and looked down and saw a dark circle forming. I then looked at Gus, and as I suspected, the telltalle dingy brown was beginning to show through his onesie.

I quickly manuvered Gus over to the changing table and got his onesie off. I then took his diaper off, only to have a jet of poo shoot out and splash on my right forearm. Ick.

Unfazed, I wiped my arm with one of Gus' diaper wipes, and forged ahead. Perhaps sensing that I was not to be so easily daunted, Gus decided to go with plan B -- and promptly sent a strem of urine in my direction, hitting me in the chest and arm. Great.

I quickly slipped off my shirt and continued ahead. Gus gave me a grin and hit me again with another quick stream -- this time hitting bare skin. Ok, buddy you win. I finished wiping both of us down and got Gus in his PJs, but I know now to fear and respect the diaper blowout. Here are some pictures of the little guy:

Smiles for Mom.

Caught in the act by the Pop-a-Razzi.

I think I'm a little too small for this ride . . .