A Day in the Hijab of Shama

In my house lurks a toddler of 17 months. She walks, or staggers really. She talks, if one considers "Bye bye," and "Da da," talking. She takes her meals with me. She takes her meals with her siblings. She then takes her meals with her father. She has somehow come to the conclusion that she is entitled to eat at least 9 meals per day. Aside from this revelation of hers there is the fact that she now has a baby sister, 2 months old. Now, in all fairness reining in at only 17 months, she is still very much a baby. But now she has been forced to adapt to not being the center of attention all of the time. She has recently, though reluctantly, graduated from her trusted bottle to a sippy cup. And is persecuted daily from the sight of her baby sister receiving nourishment and comfort from what used to be her bottle. So she then takes out her confusion on the family by demanding our nourishment and disturbing our comfort.

From all of this babbling, what I mean to say is that my toddler eats soooooo much that the contents of her diapers are...shall I say, full of...character. I don't want to change another one of her diapers for the next 100 years! I'm beginning to wonder if there is a thing called Baby Colonics. Because clearly, my baby girl is in need. The stench from these diapers is so hideous that I'm forced to immediately remove them from the house for fear of some organic compost uprising will occur in the middle of the night. I'm afraid I'll wake up bound and gagged in a really really low budget B movie about the contents of the diapers multiplying overnight and spreading themselves all over the walls as a deterrent to my escape. Their agenda being to take over the world.

I realize I'm overreacting a bit (just a bit). But I've counted. And I change roughly 15 diapers a day between the two girls. So diapers play a large part in my daily routine. And if you saw what I have seen, you'd be afraid too. Be very afraid.