Wrastlin' with an Alligator

At 17 months, Marin is starting to come into her own in terms of what she wants, and what she doesn't want.  For some reason the child has decided that having her diaper changed is tantamount to torture.

When she - ahem - 'does her business', it's quite obvious.  (no need to go into great detail here, but let's just say that certain facial expressions and umm... 'grunting' noises are involved.  That, and the fact that her siblings have no qualms about saying: "Mummy - Marin stinks!!").  So after a few minutes I'll say:  "Marin, did you make a poop?"  To which she looks at me wide-eyed and solemn, and then nods her head yes.

Well, that's about the only thing that is easy about the whole process.  I'll  go over to get her, and she'll look at me, scream:  "NOOOOOOO!!!" and then take off running as fast as her diaper-laden bum will allow her to.  Once I catch up to her, I have to forcibly pick her up and then carry the thrashing wild beast over to where the change supplies are.

To say that she becomes possessed would be an understatement.  The child writhes and squirms and thrashes about with the fury of an alligator wrestling it's pray (at least, that's what I imagine an alligator would be like when it's devouring some poor animal that's lower down on the food chain than it).  She arches her back, she kicks her feet, she goes completely rigid, and then completely limp.  She tries to roll over, she flails wildly, she screams so loudly I'm certain the neighbours are going to call child services one of these days.

By the time I finally manage to wipe the little stinker down and get a new diaper on her I'm usually drenched in sweat.

But how can you stay mad at a face like this?