The Nasty Plunge
When you've got three kids - unless you have those aforementioned extra appendages - there's always somebody that manages to do something sneaky while your back is turned. In this case, it was Cameron.
The older boys were playing contentedly in our room, Colin arranging the kids' DVDs into one pile and the grownups' DVDs into another, and Cameron "helping" (hey, it kept them quiet). So I was in the kitchen on dish duty, with the baby on the floor beside me, chewing on a toy. It was - dare I say - peaceful.
Until Cameron ran into the kitchen ... naked ... carrying the plunger.
He held it upright and over his head, like a torch. And like the torch-bearer at the Olympics, he made a quick lap before retreating into the hallway. Don't get me wrong - I was actually tempted to just let him play with it because hello, quiet? But it was a plunger and good mommies don't let their toddlers play with plungers, so I dutifully followed him to retrieve it.
As I approached him, he dropped it. And something fell out of the rubber bell part onto the carpet. A big lump of something that looked like ... oh God please no ... oh nonononono.
Aw, hell. Poop.
The child had pooped in the plunger.
The plunger was poopy. Cameron's hands were poopy. Both the baby and the dog were headed for the clump on the carpet. For a few seconds, I just stood there frozen, like maybe the problem would resolve itself. But despite my silent pleas for divine intervention, it was all on me.
I ordered Cameron to freeze and not touch anything (which is about as effective as, well, telling a two-year-old not to touch anything). I swiftly removed the dog and baby from the vicinity. Then I scoured Cameron's hands. Then I cleaned up the carpet. Then I threw the plunger away. (What? I wasn't gonna clean it off. Yuck!)
As I was doing all this, I kept trying to imagine how on earth he could have positioned himself to take a dump in the plunger. I mean, little kids are undeniably flexible, but poop-in-a-plunger flexible?
I got my answer when I took a closer look at my bed.
At my bed, y'all.
My bed. Where Cameron had apparently pooped and then transferred the pile to the plunger. With his hands. And then ran around the house with it before dropping it onto the hallway carpet. My only consolation was that he had pulled back the comforter first (which doesn't fit into our washing machine) and had done his duty - er, doody - on the sheets.
... If you can call that a consolation.
Somebody saaaaaaave meeeeeeee!!!*