I remember when I was a kid and we lived on a rural property (calling it a farm would be a stretch) my Dad brought home, through some complicated Tom Sawyer like trade, a “pet” ferret. Now anyone who has had a pet ferret might disagree with my observations, be that as it may…
A ferret is more like a snake with fur than anything else. It can twist and turn on itself in places that you would not think a fart could move in. If you try to keep it in a cage, well, good luck. They are master escape artists. Any crack or opening that they can see through, they can move through.
Their ability to twist and turn is of particular interest to me today because I am starting to wonder if Story is perhaps part ferret. A couple of weeks ago I mentioned how changing Story’s diaper is akin to some bizarre Greco-Roman wrestling match. It is now more like trying to change the diaper of a fully-greased ferret. When we got home yesterday afternoon the unique odour of baby shit followed us into the house. As parents we do the typical, hold the ass to the face and breathe deeply. I sniff and pause before saying, “Clean”…my pause was long enough for Caragh to hold Story up to her nose and get a wiff of that ripe baby poo-goo. Honestly, I didn’t mean to hesitate…
The diaper throwdown begins. Somehow it is my turn to change the diaper. I assess the situation and immediately call for reinforcements. This is bad. The poonami has fully breached the perimeter and has moved to the small of the back. Hold still and this will be…the ferret twists and writhes…we have a full on shit storm. Baby shit to the shoulder blades…it has now reached the back of the arm, on the crib bedding! An arm shoots out…Story pulls in the clean clothing I was supposed to put her in post-poo storm. I’ve been foiled. She twists and turn, I pick her up, she begins to liquify the situation! I call out again, “I’m under enemy fire! I need help here!”
Caragh arrives, “what’s the trouble, this is my everyday.” Thanks for that support sweetheart. Take the baby wipes from the little warmer that seems to never let them go when you need them, scrape the baby shit from her shoulder blades down, Caragh is wiping as I try to hold the greased little ferret without letting the shit storm hit my body.
The change station looks like a disaster zone. We may have to call a Hazmat team for clean-up duties. Bio-hazard scene.
Upstairs and into the baby tub. Have you ever tried holding a shit-soiled baby in a tub of water? Go ahead and add soap to add that n’th degree of advantage to the squirmer. She gets loose, bonks her head, screams in agony, her mother arrives and demands to know what in the name of all things ridiculous are you doing to the baby?
“I’m trying to bathe this greased ferret.” At which point Story looks up at her mother and an ear to ear grin with her two front teeth prominently displayed, splits her face. And we all laugh and marvel at how lucky we are to have these two unique blessings in our lives. It is so cool.