Poop happens

Athletes train for months, even years, to acquire the skills necessary to stay at the top of their game. Eventually they retire, start to get a little soft, then someone trots them out for an old-timers' game and it is obvious that they've lost their edge.
This has happened to me, but not with my athletic prowess. I have lost my poop tolerance. The one skill absolutely necessary for raising a baby. If humans had no poop tolerance, babies wouldn't stand much of a chance, because they'd be chained out back, with a bowl of water and a bone. Instead, we catch the poop in a cute little diaper, obsess over whether it is too hard or too soft, then add it to the pile of poopy diapers in a specially-designed garbage can, which, in our case, sat in the living room.
That is, of course, when you have a baby. The boys are now three, and since they have been potty trained for almost a year now, I am a little out of practice in the poop department. This became evident earlier this week when I went to wake the boys up in the morning, and was greeted by an unmistakable stench in their room. Assuming one of the cats had left a present for us, I started sniffing for the source. As I was crawling around on my hands and knees, looking for a little pile, Riley rolls over and says, "Hey, Mommy, my pants are kinda wet."
Yes, they were.
Although I tried to stay nonchalant, I was gagging internally as I carried him down to the bathroom, holding him by the armpits and keeping him a good arm's length away from me. We managed to save the Spider-man pajamas, but the underpants went right outside to the trash, seeing as how we no longer have the specially designated trash can in the house. I got him cleaned up, and even after stripping the bed, scrubbing the bathtub and washing my hands about ten times, that smell seemed to linger in my nostrils. I don't understand how I managed to change all those stinky diapers without batting an eye just a few short years ago!