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My husband likes to shoot guns. Not at a shooting range, rather out in the open field, directed at small, woodland critters. Yes, as in things die at the mercy of his hand. (I know, you’re thinking, how on earth can I love such a monster!?) He grew up doing this. I begrudgingly accept this as a part of our marriage. The first time James placed a shot gun in my hands, however, I had my first and only panic attack to date. Never again will he attempt such a foolish thing. I’ve come to understand that a dead bear or two will appear on the porch during our Thanksgiving holidays with his family, just as he’s come to accept that madras, seersucker, and popped collars will be present at any and all of my family’s gatherings. This is what marriage is all about. Putting up with the other person’s bullshit.

My one stipulation regarding the whole likes-to-shoot-guns-thing has been that guns shall never be housed in our home. At his family’s lodge at their Hunting and Fishing Club? Fine. That seems appropriate. But NOT under the roof where our sweet  baby girl sleeps.

Little did we know that said baby girl would in fact be her own weapon. Our very own poop-shooting little Bazooka. The first night we brought her home from the hospital we had yet to experience the magic of her canon-esque buttocks. Up until then, I’d felt like Br’er Rabbit swimming in black-tar-filled diapers (otherwise known as meconium), but nothing was catapulting out of that area until we were left to fend for ourselves outside the hospital walls. My clearest memory from that hazy first week home was one morning at 4 o’clock, James was standing at the changing table dealing with yet another dirty diaper (I swear babies must own stock in the diaper industry), when I hear a “HOLY HELL!” as my daughter rockets poop across the changing table and clears the diaper pail.

That was just the beginning. We’ve learned to race to cover her rump with a fresh diaper during each changing, for if left hanging in the breeze, we have a bazooka on our hands. Fully locked and loaded. Her favorite time to let loose is while she’s eating. In one end, out the other. It’s ever so flattering to be providing my child with her life’s sustenance, FROM MY BOOB, to have her pause, hold her breath, bear down, turn bright red, and FIRE IN THE HOLE right on my lap. She even manages to squeeze out a grunt, as though she’s dropping a major dooce like a dirty, old man. It’s even better when she blows out the diaper. Especially when we’re breastfeeding by the side of the road in a very public neighborhood of Ocean Beach in San Diego. I love being covered head-to-toe in drippy, yellow baby poop with my bare boob leaking breast milk while surrounded by tanned, chiseled, gorgeous surfers. Love.

There are times when I’ll turn to my husband accusingly after hearing an audible ass explosion, only to have him redirect my gaze towards our cherubic 10 lb infant.

This morning was a particular treat. You see, Sunny and I snuggle in bed together each day after James leaves for work. There’s ample space so that I don’t have to lie in panic that one of us is going to roll over and smother her to death. It is usually quite a sweet, Kodak affair, filled with rainbows and puppies and lollipops. So there I am, blissfully curled up next to my precious, sleepy daughter gazing in awe at her every perfect feature, studying each finger, each earlobe, inhaling that delicious baby scent, when BAM! The bed is literally shaken by her eurpting rumpus. She has started yet another California earthquake, and we are now both lying in her baby feces. Good morning to me!

The best part of waking up is with an ass hiccup! <sung to the tune of the Folger’s coffee diddy>