October 21st, 2010 12:15am - Baby Terrorist

I love babies. Retract that sentence. I love the thought of babies. I take that sentence back too. I would love babies if they were dolls that smiled and giggled. Inanimate objects, preferably.
When I began babysitting for five children, the youngest was nine weeks old. He ate and slept and didn't move. I could bring my laptop into the house and watch porn. Nine months later, Baby was a terror.
Baby crawled, rotated, squirmed. He began stumbling around like a drunken midget. He ate dirt and swallowed sand. He put his fingers in the toilet and then sucked them. He toppled headfirst into the fence surrounding the pool. He would slam his fingers in drawers and scream until someone released him from the agony he caused himself. As a human entity, I assumed that Baby would learn. If you open a drawer, remove all the contents, and then fling the thing shut with your fingers still in the drawer, it will hurt. Baby never learned. Domestic turkeys comprehend objects and pain association more rapidly.
Baby's incessant motion required piercing intelligence from whoever changed his diaper. I changed his diaper frequently and would have to maintain the kid's amusement long enough to strip him, wipe him, and strap him into another diaper.
By early October, I would wrestle Baby to the floor and then hold a toy in front of his face with one of my hands while changing his diaper with the other hand. I would try not to deck him in the head with the toy, and it would hold his interest long enough to swap out diapers.
By late October, Baby would lose interest. Fast. I'd get him half naked and lying on the floor on his back, but in the second it took me to position the diaper under his ass, he'd roll over and crawl away. When he had a diaper full of urine, I'd wipe him down while he crawled. When he had a diaper full of excrement, I'd pin him to the ground, sing into his tiny little face, and work as rapidly as I could. Short of impeding his motion by strangling him, I did all I could.
The past few days, Baby had produced particularly liquid poops. I knew this. I knew I had to change his diaper with a speed that I wasn't sure was humanely possible. I undressed him with the urgency of a sex addict ho, unfastened his diaper, and stabilized his stomach with my hand.
Baby was freakishly strong, and wrassled out from under my grip. He turned over and crawled away from me like a baby on steroids. Though I was tempted, I couldn't give Baby a smackdown. Liquid shit leaked from the diaper on the wood floor, but Baby was headed for the carpet. I abandoned the diaper and boomed towards the infant ass. I got there just before fluid feces dripped onto the carpet. They trickled into my hand.

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