parenting is some nasty ish

“Ewww, it’s pee-pee on the couch!”

Spoken from the mouth of my three-year old.

“Did you pee-pee on yourself?” Asked rather passive-aggressively by myself, of course knowing the answer.

“No.” Spoken clear as a bell by said three-year-old, as the insides of her jeans showed the tell-tale signs of the truth.

This at about two-thirty in the afternoon yeaterday, after my almost-five-yea-old chucked in the Mexican restaurant at lunch, his cheese quesadilla, rice, and chips coming up in big chunks, all over his jeans and mine, seeping into the folds of the booth. He’s been having an issue lately with stomach pain and vomiting. We’ve seen this before. What’s the first step toward diagnosis? You called it: stool sample. And 5-year-old $%it does not smell like roses.


Fast forward today, just about twenty minutes ago, twenty minutes past bedtime. My three year old again, parades into my room, hands in the air.

“Mommy, look, there’s poop on my hands!” As if she has no idea where it came from.

“Stop!” I run around the bed to grab her, hoping she does not touch anything. I then notice the poop is not just on her hands, but down her legs, and under her foot.

Yes, she has tracked poop on the carpeted floors from the bathroom to the bedroom. (This is a rented apartment that was newly renovated when we moved in, and I truly feel for the folks who will inherit this carpet from us. One of those ultraviolet lights would tell a scandalous nasty-motel-like story up in here.)

I march her to the bathroom, and there is poop EVERYWHERE. On the floor. In the bathmats. On the sink.

“Husband! I need you.” He thinks this is my run-of-the-mill, I-need-you-because-I-hate-dealing-with-poop-I-need-you. He comes out of my son’s room. “What the – ” We both start gagging as the smell reaches the back of our throat. I dump her in the tub and start the bath, but forget the shower button is still up. She gets sprayed in the face with cold shower water and starts crying from the shock.

I mean, I didn’t do it on purpose, but I can’t say I’m truly sorry. Judge me if you want. *Shrug*


P.S. Grateful that my husband and I share a sense of humor. Because if we weren’t able to laugh together about stuff like this, our lives would be miserable.

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