So I realize that on this blog I will become the thing that so many people are wary of. I will eventually start boring people to tears with play by plays of every little thing Charlie does, ranging from fascinating essays about his poop, to dissertations on how when his little hands grab on to things it's clear that he's a supergenius (its obvious, you guys, he clearly is showing signs of advancement far beyond his age because he managed to pull his pacifier out of his mouth with his hand. He'll be using tools very soon.)

So acknowledging that ahead of time, I want you to know, I understand, that I am becoming boring parent guy. I have no control over it. It's a genetic thing that happens when you pro-create. I'm gonna start a separate blog about politics and other stuff, and leave all the boring family stuff on here, so the two never have to intersect.

In the interim, allow me to regale with you a nightmare horror story. About poop. Just because I can. (Charlie is gonna hate me later, but whatever.)

After Charlie's meconium phase he stopped pooping at all. We went 96 hours of nothing but pee. In exchange for no poop, we were given the gift from Satan himself, Sulfuric death farts that could kill all animal and plant life within a 10 mile radius. These things were more than toxic. They could put you on the floor. So after 96 hours of this we were starting to get nervous that Charlie would be that embarrassing smelly kid at school who all the other children shunned for fear he might make them smell like sulfur too. Finally after 4 days of nothing, he crapped all over himself. It was a glorious and victorious night, simultaneously thrilling, and disgusting. It's an amazing moment when you come to the realization that you are getting excited about poop. You become conflicted with feelings of relief that your kid can poop, and horror, that you get excited by such things.

The next night, I heard him pooping, and being the proactive guy I am, I grabbed him out of his crib before he started crying. I popped him onto the changing table, checked out his diaper, and sure enough, there was a nice big watery poop all over his little diaper. I proceeded through the motions of changing him, wiping him down, grabbing the replacement, when to my horror, the apocalypse came forth, because God apparently hates me.

Ever go to a fancy party and see a chocolate fountain? Now imagine that but with runny baby poo. Endless baby poo. I tried wiping the second round, but it just kept coming. Nothing would stop it. I screamed for backup. By the time Heather got up there I was on wetwipe #5 and frantically trying to stop the madness. 6 wetwipes and 2 diapers later, things were back under control. I now have Post Tramatic Stress Disorder, but that's a small price to pay in exchange for my kid being socially acceptable when he grows up.

The farts have gone. And now I bore my friends with poo play by play. Good times.