Babies are gross.

Yes, gross, I told you.

I've been surprised to find myself not grossed out at all by most baby things - breastmilk poop doesn't smell like anything and isn't actually much like poop in general, drool is relatively inoffensive, spit-up is pretty much completely undigested milk, etc. This pleasant lack of disgustedness has been aided by Jim's apparent proclivity for saving the grosser aspects of being a baby for Noah.

That picture above? Biggest spit-up ever. He has occasionally spit up on me, but it's only a dribble and not often. The big ones always wind up on Noah. Peeing on the changing table? Hasn't happened to me once; happens to Noah practically daily. Pooping on the changing table? Did it once to me, and only a little bit. Does it to Noah probably 30% of the time, and sometimes quite extensively.

Jim's second bath came about precisely because of one of those events, actually. No sooner had Noah removed his diaper than Jim began to evacuate from all orifices simultaneously (well, okay, fine - two orifices). I was in the other room, so all I heard was his panicked voice. "Paper towels, woman! I NEED PAPER TOWELS!" Upon my curious entry into the nursery, all I saw was Noah holding a cheerfully-dripping Jim a foot above the changing table, which had been cleverly transformed into a swamp of urine and mustard-yellow baby poop.

It actually took surprisingly little time to clean things up. A couple of paper towels took care of the mess in the changing table, and Jim didn't even squall too much while Noah scrubbed the pee out of his hair (provided I kept him amply provided with fingers to nom on). Still, I remain duly grateful that these treats are generally saved for times when Noah is taking care of things, rather than when I'm home alone.