The Great Poopocalypse

When I became a mom for the first time, I had so many moments where I questioned the stability of my choices. The logical part of me knew the basics and had figured there would be a learning curve. The slightly crazy side of me (no judgement, we all have one) threw caution to the wind and was so consumed with tiny-things cuteness overload that it drowned out any sense of sanity that I had tucked in a corner for a rainy day.

We all have freakishly hilarious stories about our kids. You know the ones I’m talking about, the ones that make you wonder how on earth you ever thought you were grown up enough to even attempt parenthood. I’ve said it many times before and I’m sure I’ll be saying it until I’m old enough to forget my name: Parenthood is not for the light-hearted.

I have hundreds of stories that someone somewhere will hear and go, “Yup been there!” and others that some may read and go “Holy $h!t! How does that even happen?!” Regardless, it’ll either make you laugh because you can relate, make you laugh because you’re so damn happy it wasn’t you or you’ll be infinitely relieved because it’s actually happened to you and you’ve been far too horrified to ever share it with another living soul.

What I’m hoping for is that you’ll comment either here or on Facebook, give me a retweet or a share because you find value in it or you’ll just be able to breathe a sigh of relief knowing that you are definitely not alone. I’d love to hear your parenting hilarity too! Share, share, share!! I plan to make this a series, but I’ll space them out.

My middle babe celebrated her 8th tour around the sun this past weekend so I thought who better than her to kick off this segment of: Parenting. You’re Doing It Wrong…Or Are You?

My little P was born a busy and curious little soul. Fun Fact #1: She made a super quick entry into this world, we have the parking slip to prove it. The pass we got when my husband parked the car read 7:11am and she arrived at 7:24am. And no I didn’t wait too long to go to the hospital, she was seriously just that fast. Fun Fact #2: I was deemed a legend at the hospital that day for her quick arrival. I overheard two nurses talking outside my door around dinner time about this woman who almost had her baby in an elevator earlier that day. They were marveling over a few of the details so I poked my head out my door to introduce myself. They ran off, horrified that I had overheard them. I wasn’t offended or anything, more flattered that the story was share worthy. Hell I was ready to sign autographs and provide an in-depth interview had they asked.

The last 8 years have been full of adventure. Seeing the world through her eyes has taught me to appreciate the simple beauty that exists in the quiet moments. She’s thoughtful, compassionate, energetic, loving…I could dedicate an entire entry to words I’d use to describe her. She also knows exactly how to make me crazy.

When she was about 15 months old, I put her down for a snooze, turned on the baby monitor and sat down to get some work done. As a work-at-home-mom those 2 hours were so damn precious. I learned to be more productive in 2 hours than most are capable of in 10. She was great with naps, always laid down and went to sleep with no problem. No crying, no noises to be heard so I got to work.

At the 2-hour mark, I went upstairs to wake the sleeping beauty. As I got near the top of the stairs, a very unpleasant smell assaulted my poor nose. I opened her door and as I was about to smile, the scene before me started to actually register. She had pooped (knew that by the smell), but it was so much worse than just a dirty diaper. Fun Fact #3: When poo leaves its sweet diaper home, it multiplies. The diaper lay disgustingly open on the floor just beside her crib, no longer firmly attached to her bottom like it should have been. As my eyes traveled up the side of the crib to my foul smelling child, she was sitting on her butt with her legs stretched out in front of her and her arms were lifted in the air, just frozen. The look on her face…well I’m not sure what to make of it.

I’m going to ask you to close your eyes for a moment as I create an image in your mind that even Picasso could appreciate. I’m standing in the door way and to my left is her now brown-streaked (once completely white) crib. The wooden rails have been unfortunately accented with what I can only assume to be poo smears. There are little handprints on the head and foot of the crib, as if she had taken an ink stamp to make a picture. What was once a soft pink minky crib sheet was covered in little brown poo handprints, footprints and splotches. The beautifully painted flat pink and glossy pink striped wall was now spattered with brown spots, dragging handprints and even a couple of footprints in between the crib rails. The piece de resistance was none other than my little angel sitting in the middle of it all. Her hands, legs and feet almost completely brown, the poo in her hair, ears, even a little up her nose. But the sight that almost caused me to lose consciousness was the war paint-style shit streaks across her cheeks and brown chunk covering her upper lip. Time stood still. Our eyes locked, my lip started to quiver. And then I swear that my tiny shit-dipped terror smiled at me. Are. You. Kidding. Me.

I will never understand how a child can look at poo and think, “Ooooh well what do we have here? My bum just made a super fun toy for me to play with!” Gross. And utterly mind-boggling.

Survival mode kicked in next and I had to decide if I’d try to wash the linens/towels/sheets/clothes or if they were going to be a casualty of war. I looked at the crib sheet and instantly decided I’d light a candle for all the lost items that night. May they fair well in their journey to the dump.

Next came the choice: kid or room first? That was easy, start with the disgusting baby. I stared at her, she smiled at me as I figured out a way to pick her up without actually getting any of the ick on me. Check. Into the tub she went. As I began to hose her off and wipe her down, she started crying because she wasn’t in the mood to be naked. Too bad. It took me 27 minutes and an entire tube of Arbonne Baby Care Hair & Body Wash to de-gross her, but I won that battle. Selfie high five! She got diapered, dressed and put into the playpen.

I re-entered the battlefield, surveying the damage. There’s a moment where I want to curl up in a ball, cry and suck my thumb. Then another one where I think about putting her back into her poo clothes and into her crib to wait for her dad to come home and deal with it. I gave myself a little slap and thought BUCK UP! You’re not about to let some piece of shit win. Oh hell NO. You GOT this sista!

I gathered a bucket of hot water and bleach, scrub brushes, rubber gloves and a garbage bag. As an afterthought, I grabbed a container of toothpicks. To battle I went, armed with my weapons. Fun Fact #4: In the hard-to-reach crevasses that a scrub brush can’t get to, toothpicks are excellent tools for getting right in there. Fun Fact #5: If you ever need an answer to the age old question “Did I get it all?”, just lean in for a sniff test. The nose never lies.

It took 122 minutes to win the war. There was cursing, a few tears, even a need to bleach my hand when my finger went through the end of the glove. But I made it out the other side. The casualties sustained that day included a minky crib sheet, footie pajamas, diaper shirt, old towel, 4 scrub brushes, about 80 toothpicks and 2 pairs of rubber gloves. May they all rest in peace.

I made it back downstairs, put everything away and sat my fresh smelling angel on the floor to play with her big sister. I dropped into my favorite chair, totally knackered needing a break for a couple minutes. The front door opens and in walks my husband. He hugs the girls and I, takes his coat off and looks around and before I even have a chance to ask how his day was, he say, “Oh you didn’t start supper yet? I’m starving!”

It took every ounce of willpower not to add to the casualty tally.