Fair warning. This is going to be a post about poop. Baby poop. If that's not your thing, come back another day.
All right, here we go.
Sometime last week, Tom came home with two tiny jars of baby food. Organic "Baby's First Peas" and "Baby's First Sweet Potatoes." The ingredient list on the former: peas, water. On the latter: sweet potatoes. For 4 months old and up.
For a while now, we've been letting Sir taste things. He's licked juice bars (lime, mmmm) and vanilla ice cream and popcorn. He had a teeny tiny taste of my corn mush when we went to Chevy's for lunch with Gram Gram. At 5 months old, there isn't really any need yet for him to be eating solids (usually babies are fine to be exclusively milk-fed until about 6 months), but the pediatrician said it was perfectly fine to gently expose him to different tastes if he showed an interest.
So then Tom brought home the tiny jars. And then last Thursday night, just before I left for work, he opened up the sweet potato one and decided to see if Soren wanted any. Immediately the dread began to settle in the pit of my stomach. I've heard the stories. Breastfed babies' little poopy emanations, while not exactly as fresh as a mountain spring, really don't smell all that bad. But once you start feeding them "people food," it's all over. Thus I began to anticipate what was to come.
The diaper of horror.
It became a running joke over the next few days. Because oh yes, by the way, breastfed babies apparently have the capacity, after a few months of age, to sort of store up their poops for a few days and then explode. This is considered perfectly normal. So when Friday came and went with no diaper of horror, and Saturday brought only some particularly noxious toots, I was certain that Sunday all of the wiggling and belly gurgling would yield the object of our dread. But no. Today was to be my "lucky day."
I'll spare you the details, but the diapers of horror count is now up to 3, over the last several hours. I can say the little man has been visibly more comfortable with each expulsion. ("He's as light as a feather! He's...he's as merry as a school boy! He's as giddy...he's as giddy as a drunken man!") And while it hasn't been quite as bad as I expected, I think we'll be holding off on opening that jar of peas for a little while. ;)