(Short Story) Mitchell’s Gerber PT 3

The day began with a warning sign Zander should have recognized immediately. Mitchell's Pampers arrived pre-loaded—a ticking time bomb of infant waste, a diaper so laden with previous digestive adventures that it should have come with a hazard warning.

But Mitchell? He was completely unbothered.

Zander approached with the Gerber sweet potato, knowing full well he was walking into a biological warfare scenario. The high chair looked less like a feeding station and more like ground zero for an impending disaster.

Mitchell's Pampers already sagged with the weight of his morning's... accomplishments. It was a diaper that told a story of epic proportions—a tale of digestive might, of pure infant audacity. The smell hit Zander like a wall, a complex bouquet that spoke of last night's milk, some mysterious solid foods, and pure, unfiltered chaos.

The first spoonful of sweet potato launched. Half landed in Mitchell's mouth, half decorated his face like orange war paint. His chubby cheeks became a canvas of culinary destruction. And then, right on cue, Mitchell's face scrunched with that now-familiar look of concentration.

He was pooping. Again.

The already-compromised Pampers began to expand, strain, threaten total structural failure. Sweet potato continued its trajectory across Mitchell's face and surrounding area, while his diaper performed its own parallel symphony of destruction.

Zander watched in a mix of horror and fascination. The kid was a machine—eating, pooping, completely unbothered by the carnage he was creating. The Pampers looked like it was housing not just a small warm watermelon, but an entire fruit plantation.

As the feeding frenzy continued, Mitchell's eyes began to grow heavy. The sweet potato assault slowed. The pooping continued, but with less intensity. And then, in a move that defied all logic and sanitation, Mitchell started to drift off to sleep.

Right there. In the high chair. Face covered in orange Gerber. Pampers at absolute maximum capacity.

Zander stood frozen. Mitchell was out cold, looking like a tiny war criminal who had just completed his most successful mission. The diaper—oh, the diaper—was a testament to human endurance, to the sheer destructive capability of a toddler.

"Sweet dreams, you little terrorist," Zander muttered.

Mitchell snored. Peacefully. Completely unbothered.

Welcome to parenthood, surf boy. The show is over. For now.