I am so sorry to my tens of readers for not posting in a while.  We have been dealing with a lot more poop than giggles lately. No, seriously. Amelia has been pooping around the clock for 11 days now. 

Here is a look at the last 11 days (in addition to everything else everyday entails)

1) Hear baby poop (Let me tell you something: you haven’t lived if you’ve never heard the grunty-squirty-farty-exploding cacophony of intestinal distress overfilling a diaper).

2) Start running a bath with baking soda.

3) Change screaming baby using cotton balls and warm water.

4) Consider burning everything she was wearing.

5) Instead, use stain remover.

6) Put baby’s inflamed bottom in bath.

7) Let baby play in bath till happy and pruney.

8) Dry baby and let her scooch around nekkid for a while, ready to clean up any mess that may (will) occur while baby is sans diaper.

9) Slather baby in butt paste (that is what the product is called, I am not trying to offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities)

10) Dress baby

11) Hear baby poop…

[Sidebar: I took her to the Dr on Tuesday last week.  They took a stool sample and ran tests and cultures. Still no answers.  I have changed my diet a bit to see if that will make a difference, but we are still waiting for it to take effect.  I will be calling the Dr. again tomorrow, just to let them know that she is still dealing with this. She is also nursing around the clock to replenish. Oy. End Sidebar.]

Anyway, the other night the firefighter and I were watching Duck Dynasty, and I was reminded of a funny(tragic) event. I thought I would take some time while they are all napping to share the tale:

The firefighter was reading about Davy Crockett to Zeke. Zeke was really enjoying the story and really wanted a coonskin cap. I envisioned us going to an outdoorsy retailer and purchasing a very snuggly, polyester-blend, machine washable hat.  

The firefighter had much more authentic(disgusting) plans.

Another firefighter lives out in the country and was complaining about the stinkin’ raccoons. My firefighter asked his friend if he would trap one so he could make a coonskin hat for our son.  The friend obliged and about a week later the firefighter came home with a sheepish grin and a warning not to look in the back of his truck.  As I recall, I was pregnant and carrying our 1 year old Connor at the time. I figured he had the skin of a raccoon in there and was being sensitive to my delicate sensibilities.  

Buuuuuuuut….

Then he went to the closet and got his shotgun and told us we should not go in the backyard. 

Oh. My. Word.

We may be Texan, but we live in TOWN y’all!

That event has become that which we do not speak of. My son does not have an animal carcass fashioned for his head, but that raccoon is no longer pestering anyone.