Red Like Rafiki

“Diaper changes are sacred. Especially when someone gets farted on mid-spiritual moment.”

—The Auntie Shaman, probably in a state of shock

Potty problems are bad enough. Potty problems with food allergies? That’s a fucking war-zone.

This week, we live in The Lion King, so we’ve got new names. “Zazu” (18 months) has a digestive system made of wet tissue and bad intentions. One mishap and it’s Code Brown: Diarrhea Edition.

So there I am—on the front lines—wipes flying, butt cream smearing, trying not to inhale. Sis (aka “Nala,” age 3) is standing next to me on her tippy toes like a nosy stage mom. Gasped. Pointed. Dead serious: “Aww, my poor little Zazu… your butt is RED like RAFIKI.”

I nearly collapsed. She meant it with love. Deep, weird, toddler love. Meanwhile, Zazu farted mid-wipe like it was a spiritual offering. The boy was proud. He was reborn.

Clean-up complete. Gave Nala a high five for her moral support and unsolicited commentary.

Circle of life, babe.

🚨 Truth Bomb:

Kids don’t come with filters or timing. They just come at you raw, emotional, and leaking from every possible orifice. And somehow, that’s love.

💗 Auntie’s Raw Take

Living life on food allergy alert is like being stuck in a high-stakes escape room run by toddlers and dairy. I think I’ve covered every base—no milk in reach, snacks double-checked, labels read like they’re state secrets—and then this sneaky little gremlin swipes his sister’s rogue cup like it’s a forbidden chalice. One sip, and I’m diving across the room like I’m in a slow-motion action movie with a diaper in one hand and a full-body panic in the other.

Egg and milk are the enemies. And sure, he can sometimes tolerate them when they’re baked into something dense enough to sink a boat, but that’s a tightrope walk I didn’t sign up for. It’s exhausting. It’s constant. It’s like running IT for a system that crashes if it even smells dairy.

But here’s the part that kicks me in the heart: Bubs handles it all like a champ. Seizure survivor (more on that trauma bomb another day), allergy warrior, toddler brother to a pint-sized gladiator who shows love through aerial assaults—he’s been through it. And still? He laughs. He snuggles. He farts with the confidence of a frat bro and the soul of a tiny monk. He’s unbothered, unstoppable, and somehow still squishy as hell.

This kid doesn’t ask for much. Just full access to cuddles, his favorite snack, and a playlist that slaps. He’s consistent. Reliable, even. Meanwhile I’m over here playing allergy roulette and trying not to cry in the pantry.

The thing is… I do laugh. Because if I stop to fully feel the weight of how scary it is—the idea that one stray sip could send us spiraling—I’d lose it. So yeah, I’m cracking up at his red-ass Rafiki moment and cheering when he blasts one into the air like he’s baptizing me with butt wind. Humor is the buffer between fear and breakdown. Sass is survival.

So when I say Circle of Life, I mean it. We cry, we wipe, we laugh, we almost die a little inside, and we do it again. That’s the job. That’s Auntie life.