The name of this blog has never been more apt than recently. The other day my life literally revolved around poop (even more than usual). It was a literal shit show. Our dog Mac Daddy, an English Bulldog, has a shelf bum. It’s this shelf below his butthole where small pieces of poop go to rest and relax after he goes #2. Graphic, I know. But this is my life. Maybe a good
time to put down that PB&J sammy you’re eating. So he comes in from taking a nice relaxing deuce outside and of course, it’s that 1% of the time when I don’t see and wipe (yes, I also wipe my dog’s butt) the tiny turd resting ever so gracefully on his shelf, so he sits down, smears it around on the tile, stands up, walks in it, then wanders through the house looking for his next pair of dirty underwear to lick.
So I’ve got poop smeared on the floors. Check. I spend about 30 minutes tracking each smear with my spray bottle of organic cleaning supply and paper towels and then sit down, relieved to be done. Gunnar takes this opportunity to announce that he’s crapped himself and I realize while I was on my hands and knees cleaning shit off the floors that it had spread down his legs into his exersaucer. This exersaucer, let’s be clear, it’s the poop machine. If your kid is EVER constipated and still fits in one of these contraptions, throw her in! It’ll have her pooping in minutes. In fact, there should be exersaucers for us parents for those days when things aren’t moving (imagine!). Anyhoo, so I change Gunnar and find some new pants for him and sit down for a quick chug of wine. It’s now 5pm and I’m feelin’ the burn of the day physically and emotionally. I’m literally counting down the time until DC gets home for a little much earned relief (2 hours – God help me).
The rest of the evening goes off without a shit, I mean hitch. Kids are in bed finally and DC is home so I’m laying down halfway on my bed semi-conscious, semi-delirious with God knows what TV show on in the background. I’m probably drooling, it’s anyone’s guess at this point. I’m just done. Then we hear Van calling from his room. It starts with his usual jabbering and yelling and finally escalates into full blown cries. Uncharacteristic, so we check on him. There he stands in the middle of all his pillows, comforter, sheets, toys strewn about the floor, naked from the waist down, hands and everything else covered in poop. “Yucky,” he says. At least he’s got the wherewithal to know it’s disgusting. I stifle a sob and could’ve kissed DC’s feet when he said he’d deal with the kid. So I grab the diaper, inevitably getting poop all over my hands, as Van gets hauled off to the bath. Really the only solution – wipes aren’t cutting it here, guys. The 8:30pm bath is all that will suffice. I look around his room and think: “I could clean this, or I could just burn it down and have a contractor build it again from scratch.” For a second I lean towards option 2 but then remember we’re in a rental and on a budget so we gather up all the poopy items in a plastic bag (again consider burning them all) and throw them into the laundry. I hear commotion, some crying, coming from the bathroom (DC or Van? Not sure.), act like I’m deaf and continue on past towards my bed where I crumble into the fetal position and try to pretend none of this ever happened.
Now, if you don’t have kids you’re probably thinking I’ve just scarred you for life. Buck up, you’ll be fine. If you have kids you’ve likely hardly batted an eye or you’re nodding in commiseration. My friend Cath recently sent me the best text message I’ve ever received regarding poop. Yeah, sadly I get a few so there IS competition – also note the dying battery. Standard OP. There’s comfort in numbers… You’re not alone out there, moms and dads in shit up to your elbows dreaming of the day your kids can wipe their own butts. I feel you. So does Cath. To aid in avoiding a full mental and emotional breakdown the next time poop happens, I’ve also included this very handy diagram. 😉