As I started up the stairs this morning, I began to notice a foul aroma, building in intensity as I climbed higher. I dreaded the contents of the diaper I was about to change, but nothing could have prepared me for the carnage I was about to witness.

I could hear my delightful baby happily chirping and squeaking in his crib as I opened the door and turned on the light. The smell reached its maximum potential and I struggled not to gag. As my eyes adjusted, I was alarmed to see dark spots on the sheets in the crib. Large brown smears covered the once teal elephants. Sleepytime Puppy was slumped dejectedly over in a corner, another victim of the disaster. The soft, pastel blanket I had often cuddled my sweet-smelling boy in before bed was now something I couldn’t bring myself to touch with a ten foot pole.

My mind raced and my heart started to pound as I struggled to comprehend what had caused this unwelcome introduction to the morning. Finally, I allowed my disbelieving eyes to drift over to my joyful son. He giggled as a loud gasp escaped my lips. Never before had I been so reluctant to approach him, but the feces-encrusted hair and pudgy, fudgy fingers conflicted with my maternal instincts.

I glanced around the room frantically, trying to find some way to clean him and the crib without actually touching either one. Gingerly, I wrapped a (temporarily) clean bath towel around the young monster and promptly deposited him in the tub. After much scrubbing with plenty of soap, I could finally bring myself to give him his morning hugs and then proceeded to trap him in his highchair with a waffle. Then I calmly went upstairs to light a match and burn down his room.