If there is one post that my family loves, it’s the one charmingly named Turdageddon. This post has been read aloud at least twice during Sunday dinners, which, given the subject matter, says a lot about our family. So I think they will be especially thrilled to find out that recent events in my house (that I was not especially thrilled about) have prompted a sequel to this modern-day literary classic.
There I was, snoozing on the couch on a Saturday morning. Normally I get up with the kids and hang out with them while Rob sleeps in, but we went to bed hella late the night before, and between Bella’s growing pains and Surrey’s asshole two-year molars, I was up every hour during the four hours of sleep I managed to get. So I got the girls breakfast, turned on a TV show, and laid down on the TV room couch to snooze while the girls putzed around the house eating and doing their morning thing.
Now, I normally don’t completely fall asleep when I’m on mom duty; rather, I mom-doze. Mom-dozing is when you sleep just deeply enough to be less bitchy when you wake up, but lightly enough that you can hear what your kids are doing and weave weird bits and pieces from their TV shows into your thoughts. This morning, though, my body was like, “get the fuck out of my face with this mom-doze bullshit” and shut down for a half hour. Like, I made it into full REM sleep. I was in the middle of an amazing dream when I felt someone tugging on my arm. “Mommy? Mommy?”
I didn’t have my glasses on because I was
dozing sleeping, so when I opened my eyes, I saw a blurry version of Surrey smiling at me. Then my brain started to come back online, and sent me the following dismaying thoughts:
“Ugh, Surrey, you stink. You need a new diaper.”
“Whoa, Surrey, you got that peanut butter from your toast all over yourself!”
Then I put my glasses on and saw the dirty diaper laying on the floor across the room, and realized that oh noes, that wasn’t peanut butter smeared all over her body.
It was poop.But you figured that out already, didn’t you?
So I did what any responsible, couch-sleeping mother would do when she discovers her two-year-old has covered herself in her own shit: I shouted, “GODDAMMIT I’LL NEVER GET TO FINISH THAT DREAM!”, did the under-the-armpits-carry up the stairs, and dropped her into the tub…but not before stomping into our bedroom where my husband was sleeping (probably having some kind of kick-ass dream that BY GOD HE WASN’T GOING TO FINISH) and shouting “LOOK WHAT YOUR DAUGHTER DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIID!!!!!!!” while Surrey dangled in front of him.
Surrey apparently thought that she had won the toddler lottery and was being awarded her very own midday bath. Once she realized that no, this was going to be the equivalent of a baby car wash, she stuck out her bottom lip and her tummy and just waited it out. You never saw a cuter, dejected, poop-covered kid in your life.
After I got her dried off and dressed, I got myself dressed and headed to the store. I’d learned two things that morning: first, never leave your child unattended with food that can be mistaken for feces; and second, when your two-year-old pulls a Shitty Picasso, it’s time to go to Target and buy her a potty chair.
So, see? When life hands you poop, make poop lemonade!Aw Jesus, you’re ending on THAT joke?