an explosion of unnatural proportions

Bridget's teething. Those fangs that retracted before finally, officially, popped through on our wedding anniversary (June 10) and now the bottom ones are making their way through the gums. And since Bridget pulled my finger into her mouth the other day so she could gnaw on it, I'm pretty sure the molars are growing (although at the rate she grows teeth, they may not pop through for another four months). Along with the teething, Bridget's immune system is down, something I've come to expect now: She's got an allergic reaction to something (a rash all over her body, although it doesn't seem to bother her); a hacking, raspy cough; and a horrible diaper rash, thanks to the numerous explosions of poop she's been having recently. Last night, though, there was an Explosion of Unnatural Proportions. Uck, uck, uck. I'm blogging about this precisely so she'll read about it sometime in the future.

I was busy preparing dinner, trying to have it ready for when Al walked in the door. The grill was warming up, the salmon was in the grill basket, the water for the four-cheese ravioli was about to boil, and I was making room for the skillet for the spinach on the stove-top. Bridget was "making dinner," too, busy at her play kitchen with her pots and pans (I had to move it into the actual kitchen since she always wants to help and it's hard to hold a kid as heavy as her while I'm cooking—I actually pulled my quad the other day just from holding her). She was having a grand old time and came to show me what she was "cooking." That's when I realized that her hands were all dirty; she had gotten into something. No, wait—that was, it was poop. And it was on her feet, on her legs, on the floor, on everything she touched. It was 7:09, and I should have been popping the salmon on the grill and the ravioli into the now-boiling water, but I rushed around trying to clear the area surrounding the sink and the sink itself so I could clean her up (I had bathed Mya in the bathtub earlier that day and hadn't been able to clean it up yet, of course). All the while, she was oblivious to my consternation, walking around, spreading more poop, and threatening to grab onto my pantlegs. I began to strip off her clothes and she thought it was a game and tried to run away. When I finally got off all of the clothes (the diaper, along with her skirt, went into the trash), I dumped her right in the kitchen sink and began to hose her down. Al pulled up, I yelled through the door that I needed help, and he took over the hose duties while I rushed to finish (start?) making dinner.

It was as I was cooking, going back and forth between the grill and the kitchen, that I realized the Enormous Unusual Proportions of this explosion of poop. There was poop on the kitchen floor and on Bridget's play kitchen and toys. There was poop on the dog dish. There was poop on the carpet and on the riser between the kitchen and family room. There was poop on the fireplace bricks. There is probably still poop that I haven't discovered lurking somewhere about. Poop, everywhere. Everywhere, poop.

To be fair to Bridget, I'm pretty sure the diaper she had on was too small. It looked like it. It wasn't hers, but it was available when she needed to be changed at daycare. But even if it was (or would have been) the right size, she'd already pooped out of her pants twice this week, a consequence (in my mind) of teething and an overall compromised immune system. If my mom would have been alive and around last night, she would have been gagging uncontrollably and probably would have refused to eat dinner after witnessing such an explosion. As it was, I finally got dinner on the table and we finished out the night in high spirits (Bridget, especially). Compromised immune system and Explosions of Unnatural Proportions beside, not much slows my little girl down.