Caution: Biohazard



Into every grandparent's life, a little poop must fall.

Take my youngest grandson, Everett, for instance. His bowel habits are typical of any baby under twelve months. They vary with time of day and type of food ingested.

But one thing is consistent -- the aroma.

Sometimes I can tell when Everett will need a diaper change. He scrunches his face up, turns red and grunts. But sometimes, he sneaks one by me and it is only the gentle breeze of someone passing by that gives my nose a hint of what is to come.

It's when you get his diaper off that you really blanch. I've seen grown men be reduced almost to tears by the smell -- case in point, his dad. There are times when even a haz-mat unit would be challenged to see the job through.

Here's the payback. As soon as Everett feels the coolness of the outside air hit his bare backside, he grins that great big, toothless, shiny, pink-gummed smile that lights up the room. That's because he has you right where he wants you.

By the heartstrings.

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