Urine Trouble

Disclaimer:  I know I promised post-birth stories, complete with poop and catheters, but this one was still fresh in my mind...and on my clothing.

I knew going into this motherhood thing that I would be spending a great deal of time dealing with fluids…and by fluids, I don’t mean a bottle of Jack Daniels. Oh no, my friends, I’m taking about urine. I’ve heard horror stories about baby boys and their lack of control over their little..um…hoses? (And I guess the same lack of control can be said about certain adult men as well). Friends have told me about their sons peeing in their faces, in their mouths, on their freshly laundered work suits, all over walls--pretty much wherever they feel like it. This epidemic is so widespread that companies have capalized on it and are now producing little birthday hats for their little guys. Behold theThe Peepee Teepee for the Sprinkling WeeWee (yes, that's the name).



Seriously?  The baby will kick that thing off with his ninja moves in .1 second.  Also, are they trying to make it look like the baby is being changed on a fluffy white rug?  Good luck getting the poop out of that after his first dirty diaper. 

There is so much to be said about this...but I have a feeling if I do, this blog post will be an endless rant about the absurdity of the product.  I personally use one of these, which I have found to be just as effective.  And re-usable.  And free:

A burp cloth.  Or a washcloth.  Or a baby wipe.  Or your hand.  All of these things work wonderfully....most of the time.  Unless you've encountered my son, who is very stealth about his urine output. 

I was breastfeeding him the other day, utilizing the best invention ever (and I'm not talking about my boobs).  The My Brest Friend Deluxe Nursing Pillow (again, yes, this is the actual name of the product).  This is the actual one I have and I am more attached to it than I am my Iphone (which says a lot).  I don't think I could feed the Dictator without it.  Essentially, you strap this sucker on and whip out the boob.  The baby lays on it and has direct access to the goods (so many things could also be said about part of this sentence...). 

 

So here I am, sitting on my couch, providing nourishment for the Dictator.  He's happily chowing down.  Then I notice that he stops.  I look down and he is smiling.  Or actually, he was probably smirking.  Like this:

Suddenly I feel something warm.  And I smile, thinking that he's just snuggling with me, enjoying our bonding time.  I am so naive.  Because then the warmth starts to get cold.  And I realize he had just peed, up and out of his diaper, aiming right for my stomach.  And now he's smiling for real. 

Of course, I can't just pull him off of me and change my clothes since he's in the middle of eating (I liken this to being pulled away from my straw, where I'm sucking down a wonderful Jack and Coke with a million limes.  I would be pissed).  So there I sit, for the next 30 minutes, covered in my son's urine.  The kicker?  He DID IT AGAIN 10 MINUTES LATER. 

The Evidence:

You win this round, little man.  You win this round.

Emmett: 1  Mommy:  0