If you've read my blog with any sort of regularity, y'all know that I deal with an insane amount of poop (actually, disgusting fluids in general). Thanks to our three kids and our expanding animal menagerie - the tally is up to two dogs, three cats, and a fish now - and their various bodily functions (and malfunctions), I go through more paper towels and carpet cleaner and sanitizing products than a janitorial service.
You'd think I'd be used to it, and I guess for the most part, I'm as "used to it" as I'm ever gonna get ... until something ridiculous happens. Do any of you remember the Phantom Pooper? Or the Phantom Pooper's revenge? Or the time someone (or something) defiled my pillow?
Anyway, lately the ridiculousness has been in full swing. Because Coby, my two year old, was doing really well at the whole potty training thing ... until a few days ago. And then there was a swift and complete and surprising regression, with a twist: he's now taken to doing his business on the floor.
I don't know what happened. Perhaps it's the impending baby. Or the fact that we've had company (yes, for nearly a week already) and our typical schedule has been thrown for a loop. But whatever the reason, I've been cleaning up more than my share of disgustingness lately. The other day, when I thought he was playing quietly in his brothers' bedroom? He was actually playing Poop Picasso (warning: scroll down with your eyes closed if you're eating and/or exceptionally squeamish).
Nice, huh? Did I mention that he scooped it off the (freshly professionally steam-cleaned) carpet before smearing it all over the closet door?
But this was just the beginning. Because the very next day, Colin yelled, "Peeeeeee!" (The gleeful way in which he announces these incidents makes me want to slap him silly, by the way.)
I looked, and sure enough, Coby had whipped off his Pull-Up and peed on the floor in our bedroom. So I dealt with the mess, and I dealt with him, and thought it was over. Only it wasn't. Because then, I hear Colin yell, "Pooooooop!"
Sure enough, there's a couple of random spots in the hallway. Not actual turds, just ... spots. Weird. I cleaned that up, and then checked Coby's butt for smears. But there was nothing. He was clean as a whistle.
And then our pug wandered into my line of sight. And she smelled funny. And I realized that the reason she smelled funny was that her back was splattered with poop. As though someone had, like, squatted over her and sharted (if you don't know what a "shart" is, do yourself a favor and look it up. It's very important terminology, especially if you've got kids).
So I had to bathe her. And wash her collar. And wonder, as I so often do, what the hell happened and why am I the one destined to take care of the situation.
Wanna know what's ironic? As I was writing this very post, Coby was sitting behind me at the kitchen table, peacefully eating his eggs. Naked, of course, because the first thing he did this morning was remove his Pull-Up. And he was being so quiet, and so sweet, and eating so well, that I turned around and said over my shoulder, "I love you, baby."
And he whispered guiltily, "I love you too. Now turn around please."
And why did he want me to turn around?
So I wouldn't see that he had peed all over his chair.
... At least it wasn't poop.
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