*Warning: This post is primarily about poop. I won’t be offended if you decide to skip it.
Last night my daughter had her best friend over after school. The girls rode the bus home together, played happily in the front yard, thanks to the unseasonably warm weather, and even ate a respectable portion of homemade chicken noodle soup. As soon as said friend was picked up, I sat down to enjoy my own dinner. My toddler wanted nothing to do with the meal, which was not shocking, and instead sucked down a tube of applesauce. Appetizing, no? Wait. It gets worse.
The moment Izzy’s friend left, a stormcloud of whining was unleashed upon us. My daughter, who normally does her math homework the minute she gets home, wanted it done immediately.
“I’m going to put on my pajamas and do my homework!” she announced. I reminded her that she hadn’t bathed or showered in three days, and it was time. Cue the toddleresque temper tantrum. I tried to reason with her, offer a few choices, and finally, over the screeching and tears, pointed out that if she’d just gotten in the shower when I’d asked, she could be doing her homework already. Pouting, she climbed the stairs, requesting that Daddy accompany her.
Score! That meant uninterrupted dinner for Mommy! My soup was the perfect temperature, and warm butter melted on top of bread that was fresh from the oven. I sat down.
“I need pee, Mommy!” my toddler announced. Of course. I crammed a bite of bread in my mouth, sighed, and arrived in the bathroom just seconds behind her. Seconds too late. She had pooped, but must have just missed the hole in her tiny potty chair, as evidenced by the unpleasant lump on the side of her seat.
“Oh, dammit,” I swore, noticing that Sophie’s fingers were also contaminated. I picked her up, still swearing, and tried to sudse her hands under the faucet. Setting her down, I felt something icky on my pantleg. That was when I put the pieces together- Sophie must have sat down on top of her mess; not only was there poop on my sweater and jeans, it was also stuck to her leg and bottom.
Cue the F-bombs and JCs. Bellowing for my husband, I tucked Sophie under my arm like a football and hauled her up the stairs. I barged into the bathroom where my oldest daughter was showering, stripped off both our sets of clothing, and hopped in next to her, much to her great chagrin.
“Poop!” I sputtered to my husband. “It’s everywhere! It’s all over us! It’s all over the bathroom! My clothes… the floor… the toilet…” I babbled unintelligibly, and my bewildered husband got straight to work doing Code Brown HazMat while I aimed my daughter’s hindquarters at the shower stream, prison-style.
The alternate title for this post was, “How I Started Eating My Dinner and Instead Ended Up in the Shower Covered in Poop with Both of My Children.”
I believe this unpleasant incident is karmic retribution for the smugness I experienced when my husband was the parent selected to supervise the shower. Lesson learned. Never rejoice when your spouse winds up stuck doing the high-maintenance parenting. You just might unleash Fecal Armageddon.
Or maybe the moral of the story is, just when you think your human dignity has been stripped as bare as possible by the demands of parenting, think again. If you think popping up every 30 seconds to refill someone’s milk or grab a sponge is annoying, imagine having your meal interrupted by the Poopocalypse. When it comes to a bad parenting day, my motto is: It can always get worse.
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