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Wednesday, August 15, 2001

My Son the Poo Cannon
On Monday morning my beautiful five-month old baby woke up at 5:30. This is pretty standard behavior for the boy. He generally wakes up, eats a little, gets his diaper changed by dad, then eats some more and goes back to sleep for a while. As I am holding both of his legs up with one hand and positioning the fresh diaper with the other hand, Jack fires a solid stream of liquid baby poo right at me. I attempt to catch the projectile dookie in the diaper that I’m holding, but I really just form a kind of “poo ramp” enabling the airborne fecal matter to get just enough distance to hit me in the stomach and cover the front of my boxers. I proceeded to clean up the mess while Jack sat looking very satisfied. That night I was reminiscing with Theresa about my trouble with Jack’s butt and she informed me that he had barfed into her shirt that afternoon. We had just put Jack to bed and as usual had spent the entire evening playing with him and saying things like, “Oh, sweet wittle baby, what a wittle cutie wootie pie”, amongst a whole host of other highly embarrassing things that I’d rather not document. And it occurred to me then that if anyone else on this planet had taken a crap on me and blew chunks on my wife, that we would be assembling a lynch mob and contacting a guy named Guido who “knows a guy”. Man I wish I were still a baby.