Today I had intended to introduce el primero parte of my Primer Wars series, but then… Shit happened.
Anyone with a weak stomach should stop reading here. Seriously. This post is about shit, as in poo. And not in a cute, “Hoooooow-dy ho, kids! It’s Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo!” kinda way. Nope.
Dear God, I wish I could write about a cute little Christmas Poo.
Today when I woke up, the weather was beautiful, the sun was shining, and most importantly, I didn’t have to go to school. I had every intention of packing a festive picnic lunch and hooking Boo up to his leash for a family trip to the park. That’s the American way, and dammit, I wanted to pretend like I was the picture perfect mommy for one day. A mommy from the days of yore when dinner was a homemade roast with oven baked vegetables, not a single serving Easy Mac and a handful of pre-cut apple slices.
Boo had other plans.
He was not happy when I put him down for his morning nap. Okay, ‘not happy’ is an understatement of epic proportions. The minute his feet cleared the top of the crib, my usually mild mannered toddler morphed into a howling, spitting, kicking mountain lion bent on ripping out my throat. It was a sight straight out a Sookie Stackhouse novel. (Damn you, Charlaine Harris, and your cleverly disguised literary crack.)
For ten minutes I listened to him hurl his stuffed animals at the wall and rattle the bars of his crib like a prisoner in an old fashioned jail cell. He screamed and cried at the top of his lungs, declaring me a “Mean Mommy! Baaaaaaaaad!” to anyone who cared to listen.
Whatever, dumplekins. I’m the one who’s hauling your caterwauling ass to the park later, so I’ll take your Mean Mommy and raise you a Spoiled Baby. Heh.
This is why I’ll be baking our sainted neighbors, who have said nary a word to our constant noise and wall pounding, a very large batch of Christmas cookies this year. They turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to our particular brand of crazy.
He carried on for about ten minutes after I closed the door on him, but was silent after that. For a blessed hour and a half, the house was quiet except for the pleasant rumble of clothes rolling around in the dryer and the whoosh of the dishwasher. I settled down in bed next to Red to take my morning nap DON’TJUDGEME and fell asleep quickly, dreaming about talking bottles of face primer.
At 2:30, Boo woke up and started chattering away, my cue to rush in and rescue him from his scientific baby confinement device. The minute-nay second-I opened the door, I knew there was a problem. Then the smell hit me. I closed my eyes and took a timid step in. I was honestly afraid to look around and assess the damage.
The most sadistic mind on the planet could not have painted a more gruesome picture. There was my baby, wearing only a stained white t-shirt and a gaping diaper, sitting amidst brown swirls of finger painted poo.
As my Texan father would put it, Boo had shit and dabbled in it.
Oh, look! Kittens! So fluffy and squee!
There is no dignified way to handle what happened next. The screech that erupted from my throat was unholy. “OH MAH GOD, BOO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? (retch, retch) IS THAT POOP! WHY? WHY DID THAT SOUND LIKE A GOOD IDEA? (retch)
I didn’t know what to grab first. He reached out to me, grime caked all over his hands (and to my abject horror) his mouth, and I just couldn’t handle it. I sprinted out of the bedroom and ran to the bathroom, trying not to vomit. That would just be another mess for me to clean up, after all. After splashing my face with cold water, I decided on a plan of action.
- First, strip baby and deposit him in a tub with water hot enough to scald all the germy-germs to oblivion.
- Second, roll up bedding and throw it into the washing machine, coat with a healthy dose of bleach and a multitude of prayers offered up to the Clorox gods.
- Third, wake Red up so that he can witness that indeed, the Texas Chainsaw Masscre was reenacted in our nursery, only with poop instead of blood.
- Fourth, clean the walls.
THE WALLS, people.
- Fifth, contact Hazmat about renting one of those Ebola virus containment suits. Or maybe that should have rated somewhere higher on the list? Eh, whatever.
I managed to get all this done without losing my lunch all over the top of Boo’s head. Thankfully, he’d had the good sense not to smush it into his hair, because sweet eight pound baby Jesus, I just couldn’t handle that. I would have had to shave his head or something. I don’t think peanut butter works to get poo out of hair like it does for gum.
I know a lot of my readers who are parents are just shaking their heads at me, remembering how often this happened to them all the time when their babies were little. They’re probably thinking, “Boo hoo, mutherfucka. That happened to me six times yesterday,” as they’re clicking the little red X at the top of the screen.
Yes, poor me. Poor poop-covered Chelsie. This wouldn’t be such a big deal if it had happened before, but IT HASN’T. This is the first excrement related disaster we’ve had to deal with. While we had our share of late night projectile vomit episodes when Boo was a few months old, we’ve been fortunate not to have to deal with stomach viruses or diarrhea. Yet. (Knock on wood, throw a pinch of salt over my shoulder, cross my heart and hope to die, etc.)
When I hear about other people’s babies having diaper blowouts on a daily basis, I shake my head and wonder if they’re covering their kids’ delicate bits in yesterday’s newspaper. I understand that accidents happen, but this was no accident. This was a premeditated act of toddler revenge.
So I can’t help but be a leetle dramatic. You would have been, too, if you had spent the afternoon scrubbing the contents of your kid’s diaper off the nursery walls.
And all I wanted to do today was play on the goddamn jungle gym.