Warning: If you’re even a little bit squeamish, don’t read this post. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, move on. Save yourself! And your sensibilities.
I debated telling this story. I wrestled with it for about 10 minutes. But, since I’m all about full disclosure regarding my parenting experiences, I couldn’t help myself. And the fact that I’m juvenile doesn’t help. With that said, hold onto your Oreos.
Last night I was giving Jensen his bath. It’s a gleeful time for him. He dearly loves his nightly bath. He shares the tub with his beloved Wheel Pals cars. Since the Hotwheels don’t fare well, what with all the rusting they endure after submersion. The bath is also the only location that I am able to feed Junior without a fight. Sadly. I was sitting on the toilet (lid down) beside the tub, feeding Jensen his chicken dogs. Cut to bite-sized non-choking-hazard pieces. Emme and Cailey even provided the entertainment by bringing their guitars into the bathroom to play “Mary Had A Little Lamb” that they had just learned in their guitar class. It was a happy, albeit crowded, moment. Jensen got up on his haunches and leaned forward, I presumed to be closer to the source of the sweet music.
I presumed wrongly.
With no warning whatsoever, Jensen shot out the largest poop I’ve ever seen come out a child. It was the size of his entire leg. I wish I were kidding. And it just lay there, fully intact, on the bottom of the tub. Jensen stood up, to get as far away from it as possible. With wild banging of guitars against walls, sibling, and door, the sisters made a hasty retreat out of the bathroom. I wanted desperately to follow them. But I couldn’t. What kind of mother would I be. Immobilized, Jensen and I stared at one another for about a minute. Then I did what any mother would do. I called for Fiddledaddy. He came quickly when he heard the urgency of my voice.
He assessed the situation. “Dude!” He said as he lifted Jensen out of the tub and whisked him away to the other bathroom. Which was a brilliant move, by the way. Since I was left to handle the excrement. I wondered if he noticed that the child was two pounds lighter. I stared at the tub for another minute or so. “I can’t just let the water out,” I reasoned. That would have caused a whole other set of problems.
I noticed the chicken dogs, still sitting on the counter. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so well. I left the bathroom, my mind racing. I could just close the door and pretend it never happened. A favorite coping skill of mine. I went to the kitchen to get a plastic bag. Reluctantly, I reentered the bathroom. I began gagging. I opened the seat of the toilet, just in case. It was then that I realized that I hadn’t cleaned this particular toilet this week. An unfortunate mishandling of housekeeping duties. Soon, I was heaving like a dog. Tears flying from my eyes. I put my hands into the plastic bag, trying to provide a barrier between me and the offending feces. People, it took two hands to lift it out and deposit it into the toilet. I flushed. Thankfully it went down. I thought I would have to dice it up first. Then I had to go after the remaining debris. A most unpleasant task. I was retching the entire time.
I think the only reason I was able to mentally talk myself out of hurling, was that the only person in this house who would clean THAT mess up, would be me. And I instinctively knew that if I had to clean it up, more would be forthcoming. And, well, I just willed myself not to blow. Let it be noted that I have more will power than I give myself credit for.
I finished up the job by disinfecting the bathtub, wheel pal cars, and my hands and arms, right up to the pits. I don’t know what happened to me. I thought I had developed a high gross-out threshold after birthing three children. I mean, even his diapers don’t bother me. And that’s sayin’ something.
Oh well. It coulda’ been worse, I suppose. The incident could have occurred in my bathtub. Then I would be relegated to taking showers from now on.
I remember when I was very young, spending summers at the community pool. There were a couple of boys who delighted in torturing the swimmers by strategically placing Baby Ruth candy bars in the water. I use to think that was hysterical.
I will never eat another Baby Ruth again. They are dead to me.