To the faint of heart, please be advised that this narrative does contain some graphic material.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was a bright and beautiful morn with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeating the air of my sun-drenched kitchen. I was happily hosting our quaint little coffee club of sorts that a couple of friends and I enjoyed at least weekly. It was not long after the other two had arrived, for we had just begun enjoying each other’s company and were barely into our first cups of joe when I caught a faint whiff of an odor that was not a result of something I had brewed. If my suspicions served me correctly, it was likely emanating from my not quite two year old son who was playing nearby. Using my keen sense of smell which is bestowed by motherhood and tantamount to that of a hound’s, I began turning my head while instinctively sniffing in his direction. The results: affirmative.

Rising from the table I assured my companions that they would not have to miss me for long since I was a pro at this diaper changing stuff. After all, he is my third child and this would have been in the ballpark of my ten thousandth diaper to change (seriously, I did the math). Admittedly, you can occasionally be thrown a curve ball with unforeseen circumstances, like the time a few years prior when I was changing my daughter’s diaper. Upon wiping a stubborn glob of poo that seemed to somehow be affixed, a thin, string-like substance emerged. “What the…?” I muttered. Just like a long strand of handkerchiefs being pulled from a magician’s hat, the more I extracted, the longer this never-ending enigma grew. I was on the brink of freaking out when, suddenly, the light bulb in my head went off.

Dental floss.

Yes. My child often enjoyed getting into my cinnamon flavored floss to suck off the spicy sweetness. As a result of this incident, I learned that it’s never too early to teach them to spit, not swallow. This advice will prove helpful again someday–do not allow them chewing gum until you’ve made this clear!

Since that was my most unusual experience with diapers to date, it’s fair to say that most changes are rather routine and uneventful. Eager to get it over with and return to socializing with my guests, I intended to scoop up my toddler, carry him upstairs to the necessary supplies, and free his little booty from it’s annoying stench. He, nevertheless, was less anxious to have the situation resolved. Just as I bent over to snatch him up he beelined to the nearest corner and dashed behind a faux ficus. Since he obviously wasn’t going to come out voluntarily, I decided to be one step ahead and use my infinite motherly wisdom to devise a plan. My fool-proof plot was to fake a right which would undoubtedly force him out the left where I would swiftly and oh-so-cunningly apprehend him.

The plan would have come off faultlessly if not for this:

Close-up of Exhibit A

Ah, the infamous corner. Just as I diverted my body toward the right to make my fake, WHAM! With great force, my brow bone unexpectedly collided into the corner of our entertainment center, shown above. If you have ever heard the sound of bone fiercely coming into contact with something equally hard, then I don’t need to further explain the resulting thud. After the moment of impact, I immediately placed my hand over the source of the pain, and with my head bent down, sat silently, frozen in shock. I was so jolted that I did not shout or scream or even utter so much as one profane word, unlike any other time I have suddenly encountered bodily harm. I was conscious, yet oddly speechless.

After what seemed like several minutes, the shock began to wear off and I slowly removed my hand from my head. Before I had brought my hand to where I could see it, streams of blood spilled before my eyes. It was pouring from the cut as well as the reservoir that had pooled into my palm. As I stood up and began making my way to the kitchen, my always calm and rational friend began to panic at the sight–which admittedly, I found a bit disconcerting. As I started explaining what had happened, she told me not to speak since every time my face moved the gash on my brow bone widened.

So much for enjoying a cup of coffee.

The other guest then tended to the now-infamous diaper situation. After managing Brock’s dirty deed she told me, “if you didn’t want to change him, all you had to do was ask!” By the time our coffee club broke for the day Brock had a clean diaper and I had a black eye, liquid stitches, a headache, a gash that would leave a scar, and a medical bill.

Now in addition to my right eye boasting a two-toned iris of blue and brown, it bears a permanent mark that will forever provide a loving reminder of the joys to having a potty-trained child–and of the occasional pitfalls of motherly-wisdom.

So, you now understand that I am being literal when I refer to being scarred by a piece of shit.