Boys do, indeed, have cooties. I've had them on my arm.

I had the most disgusting thing EVER happen to me tonight.

Crystal and I decided to go out to dinner tonight, and as we were driving around trying to think of someplace to go that is baby-friendly and where we could get Izzy some healthy food, we drove past Golden Corral and decided to stop in. Now, this is not a place we usually go to because it's filled with lots of sad, cheap people eating mass quantities of plain food. But at least it was different than the normal gourmet fare we enjoy at the Cracker Barrel. *deep sarcastic sigh*

So in we go, and we each get a buffet and soda, and pay our $11.11. For this we are given a little receipt and a plate and sent to line up at the trough. We obediently pile our plates high, and we actually enjoy ourselves. Some of the food was even tasty (!) tonight and Izzy behaved most of the time. He did some pretty cute stuff, too.

After we finished eating our meals, I asked Izzy, "Do you want some ice cream?" He just shook his head up and down and we cracked up laughing. I figured this was a fluke so I asked again, and again, he shook his head yes. So I say, "Do you want mommy to go get you some ice cream?," and he looks at me like I'm an idiot and nearly gives himself whiplash telling me that he does, indeed, desire a cool creamy dessert. He loved it too.

He also loves blueberries, and Crystal had got a scoop of blueberry cobbler for him on her plate. She held a fork of blueberry cobbler up to his mouth while I tempted him with an ice-cream laden fork at the same time. He turned his head from the ice cream, to the blueberries, to the ice cream again, then back to the blueberries - we were holding the two forks right in front of his mouth. The crafty little fellow then opened his mouth as wide as it would go and leaned forward - trying to get both forks into his mouth at once. He is such a hilarious little guy.

Anyhow, when we're leaving we realize something's a little rotten in Denmark, but the bathrooms at the Golden Corral are gross, and we only live about 8 or 9 miles away, so I figure waiting 15 minutes isn't going to kill him. I really don't do this very often, and I swear, he's never had the slightest bit of diaper rash. Since both my mom and my mother-in-law bragged about none of their babies ever getting diaper rash, I just knew I'd screw this up, but his bottom is just as sweet and as clear as the day he was born. Until tonight.

I got home and parked the van in front of the garage (it's too cluttered to get Izzy in and out easily) and I played peekaboo with Izzy through the tinted windows for a couple of minutes. He thinks I'm hilarious too. I get him out, and we go and let the dogs out and then we head upstairs. I go to open the front door, and I turn around to sit Izzy down while I check the mail. As I start to lower him, however, I notice my arm is wet. UGH. In terror, I turn his back towards me, and yup, there's a big wet spot up my little son's back. I stand him beside me, and I smell my arm. This is when I nearly die. For while it is yucky to have baby poop on your arm - more on this later - it is far more disgusting to have THE LIQUID THAT HAS SOAKED OUT OF THE BABY POOP ON YOUR ARM. I think I may have screamed, but I'm not sure, because I blacked out due to my disgusting predicament. Ok, not really, but I could have. It was THAT gross.

I took him to his nursery, holding him at arm's length, which is actually getting kind of hard, because that kid is pushing 25 pounds now. I stand him up on his little play table that I'm using for his changing table now, but I won't let him sit down, because HE IS DISGUSTING. I timidly undo the snaps at the bottom of his shortall's, and I'm saying a little silent prayer that this has all been some sort of terrible misunderstanding. BUT THERE IS BABY POOP ALL OVER THE INSIDE OF MY SON'S OUTFIT! It came out of the top of the back of his diaper and somehow defied gravity and ran UP HIS BACK. I have never seen anything grosser. Ever.

I try to get the shortall's off him without getting poop all over his head and while I am successful at that, I do get poop SMEARED ALL OVER HIS BACK. I keep saying to him "Stand up!" and I think the fear in my voice must have conveyed the seriousness of our situation because he didn't sit down. I push his little handmade afghan off the table's cushioned surface - the one that I put there to protect his delicate little backside from the cold hard plastic - and I bravely let go of him long enough to pull out a diaper sack into which I proceed to stuff a multitude of stinky, disgusting, poop smeared wipes while I attempt to clean up my previously sweet son.

I pull the diaper off and I try to remove as much doody as possible with it, BUT WHEN HE TURNS AROUND THERE IS POOP ON HIS FRONT SIDE TOO. Need I say more? I tried, I swear I did, I gave it my most valiant effort, but that boy was destined for a shower with his mom from the moment I realized that I did, indeed, have poopy juice on my forearm. Lucky for me, I had just bought my husband some anti-bacterial bath wash with which I scrubbed my arm before then washing it a couple of more times with my honey-almond bath wash.

But all's well that end's well, and Izzy is once again a clean, sweet baby. But has he just shown his true nature? Is this what all boys are made of? I've long suspected, and I'm so afraid that my inner fears have been realized. When I was pregnant, before I knew that my little bean was growing into a boy, I dreamed that I had the baby and when I realized it was a boy, I told my mother in incredulous disbelief, "I can't believe I had a stinkin' boy!"

Tonight, my premonitions came true.