I should have been suspicious much, much earlier.

Jed loves sneaking up behind me while I'm working in the garden on my hands and knees. He pulls up the back part of my shirt, leans his wet, slobbery lips close, blows a bubble into my backside and when I screech starts laughing like he's going so split in two. He thinks he is a real one year old comedian.

So the other day I'm working out on the sidewalk, hunched happily over my lettuce patch, and Jed does his usual back-bubble stunt. In classic motherly style, I start to tune out after the tenth time. Subconsciously, I notice that now rather than blowing bubbles he seems to be wacking me with some sort of wet thing. Still not paying attention, I assume the damp object is a rag he dug out of the carport storage shed or somesuch. Finally, and far too late, I get suspicious. I turn around. There is my child, stark naked, diaper cover in one hand and wet nasty old diaper insert in the other. He shrieks with laughter, victoriously waving the diaper in the air like he's found the gold standard for toddler humor.

So far in a year and a half (nearly) of motherhood I've endured all sorts of new and thrilling encounters with bodily fluids. Childbirth itself was a messy affair, snotty nursing baby was an unanticipated experience for the bosoms, the poopy diaper incident mentioned here was no picnic, and now I suppose I can chalk up having my backside coated with sticky toddler urine on my list of meaningful parenting experiences.