Early Saturday morning, your Daddy answered your little cry for company. He snuggled you in tight and promptly fell asleep there cuddled next to you. Several hours later, he reappeared in our bedroom door to wake me.
"Teri Lee, I need your help," he said seriously.
"Is it poop?" I answered groggily.
Your daddy looked at me with wide eyes. "Oh yeah."
I buried my head in the pillow. "Is it on the sheets?"
He shook his head gravely. "You have no idea"
I walked into the room to find you laying on your side, completely still. Brown stains seeped around you. The smell...well, it wasn't what anyone wanted to wake up to. You whimpered. I unzipped your pajamas to find poop puddling in your pajamas from your armpits to your knees, soaking all the way through two sets of sheets and almost through the mattress cover. (Dear Jesus, thank you for reminding us to get a mattress cover. Amen.) Your daddy and I cleaned you with paper towels, a huge green towel that went straight to the trash, a million wipes and a long soak in the tub. While Daddy bathed you, I washed your sheets twice with laundry detergent, Clorox, and really, really hot water.
I don't know what you ate. I have no idea how that much poop could come from such a little body.
Carter Steven Castillo, one day in some teenager angst, you will wonder if I love you. It will happen after I take some privilege, refuse some right, or embarrass you in front of your friends. One day, for some reason, you will question my affection for you. I will call to evidence the poopy armpit day.
True love cleans up poop in your armpits and still sees you as a beloved son. True love washes the sheets and throws out pajamas in tightly wrapped Wal-Mart bags so the trash will be liveable till it goes to the dump. True love will eventually forget this morning, so I write so that you will remember.
I love you.
And your poopy armpits.