So, You Like to Poop Your Pants

Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, you like to poop your pants. Let’s say you like to experience fear so great, your body takes over and you wish you had on a size two Huggies. Try this one:
So, previously, we discussed how Max had snowed ol’ Dad with an impressive display of lung power. I thought we had adapted, Borg-style, to Max’s screams. Tonight, though, while Max cried a bit before he fell asleep, he did sound a bit different. I insisted that it was just some new weapon, to which, the Borg had not yet adapted. And, because I am a geek, I actually said that. Katie was sure something was up. Either way, Max fell asleep eventually.
After a few minutes, Katie went in to check on him. She called to me from his darkened bedroom. I walked in, my eyes adjusted to the dark: Max had flipped himself over.
So, my poor son, flipped himself over, held his head up as long as he could, then laid in his own drool until he cried himself to sleep.
Katie rolled him back over, he sighed but didn’t wake up.
I went into the basement, took off my soiled Huggies, Size 36 and pulled a fresh one out of its plastic wrapper. I have a funny feeling, I’ll be needing a few more pairs before this is all over.