After 9/11, Homeland Security began using their color-coded terror advisories.
Green = good. Red = bad. Some thinktank douche obviously got stuck at a traffic light.
Anyway, the system has become vital for deciphering baby pooh.
My daughter’s turds come in such splashes of color I’ve begun to suspect she may, in fact, be a gifted expressionist.
Oh the greens and yellows and browns have triggered hours of discussion.
In search of a professional opinion, my wife hauled a loaded diaper into the doctor’s for analysis. As soon as the MD clocked the ticking grenade in her hand, he took cover.
"You brought a biohazard?"
“Yurg” our baby gurgles back happily. Translation: Fire in the hole.
And here you’ll notice a marked difference between babies and adults:
Whereas, if you or I were sh*tting our pants in public, there’d be some level of covertness to the act. Some effort at disguise or subterfuge. At the very least you’d keep your face strictly poker.
Not so for our little addition. Her arms flail, neck torques, eyes pop and then… comes the satisfactory FFFLURRRP below ground.
And now it’s time for a diaper change.
My wife and I proceed with care, avoiding the mid-change squirt... trying to contain her Seventh Generation diaper of mass destruction...
I guess we always expect an ambush. But that’s life in a baby’s Tora Bora.
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