My son’s shit smells bad. Not just adult shit bad, like after a night of Pabst and Papa John’s, but bad like Death’s rotten breath is being expelled out of this 16 pound bundle of love.

Somehow the work of the Fates have made it so that I have changed the last 5 or 6 dirty diapers. I’m certain my wife plans it this way. I’m beginning to wonder if the aquamarine stink glue that I find in his diaper isn’t some sort of ectoplasmic discharge from beyond the mortal veil.

I have a pretty strong stomach, but this stuff makes me have to turn my head and take deep breaths over my shoulder. It’s a clinging, thick sort of smell that seems to climb on board and just remind you it’s there every few minutes, even after you’ve left the room. Imagine duct taping a tub of chicken livers that have been sitting in the sun for three days right under your nose. It’s not quite that bad, but it doesn’t make it any better knowing that.

I’ve heard stories about how bad baby shit is and I thought, “Could it be much worse than what I might have run into living in a fraternity house?” The answer is an emphatic yes, if for no other reason than I have no choice but to face down that dung demon and demolish it with a healthy handful of baby wipes. It probably makes it worse that he laughs and smiles through pretty much the entire process of hazardous waste disposal.

He is the cherub of crap, the pontiff of poop, a veritable scion of shit. I couldn’t love him any more all the same.