I am currently all played out in regards to bodily functions. We have a laundry load per week dedicated to peed items. Not that anyone cares because the onslaught of stained and soiled fabrics continues. I don’t even flinch when I step in something wet and think “Yeah that is probably pee. I’ll bring a towel and some Resolve on my way back through here.” I’m not even concerned about whether it came from the dog, the kids, or the cat returned a hairball which was eaten by the dog, leaving only a slimy residue behind. It really makes no difference. The moisture was in something’s gastrointestinal or urinary tract and now it is on my foot. On my cotton sock that sees fit to pass the liquid over a wider area than a bare foot would have enjoyed. Thank you capillary action.

Poop is no different. Some days I feel that the errant-poop-incident is a thing that follows me, riding piggyback on the kids and pets. Like a weird kid that I was accidentally nice to on the first day of school and now they won’t leave me alone. There is a reason other kids are mean to you. You are intolerable and impossible to love. I hate you, poop.
I previously posted Yard Biscuit, which if you haven’t read you might want to check out. My fellow blogger familydoctormom posted a counter article with her own similar troubles.

Now that we have the background established we can move on.

For about a week prior to this event, the youngest child had made the switch from milk to “real” foods for breakfast. I use quotes on the real description because that means breakfast muffins and pieces of poptart that her sisters discard while they pace a circle around the living room and stare at the television..

Another snippet of background information; My toddler, Lady Bug, is likely the reincarnation of a lethargic eighty year old man. She fights for a seat in the recliner, slumps lazily into the seat to enjoy television, and keeps one hand shoved in her diaper just for the hell of it.

This particular day I am working on something healthy in the kitchen like fudge brownies. Supermom is out running an errand and I am on duty and on my own. That doesn’t bother me because part of my superhero powers include the world’s most effective selective hearing. My subconscious actually identifies stuff it knows I don’t want to hear and pre-filters. My wife and I have arguments all the time about me not listening to something I never heard in the first place. Very frustrating for both sides. I mean, how can she say I am ignoring something I’ve never heard? Put a pin in that idea for another day.

Back to the kitchen.

I am mixing ingredients and greasing a pan and I notice that Lady Bug is doing the old man/hand pants. I tell her to get her hand out of her diaper and she does and starts looking around the couch for some mischief. At least that’s what my peripheral vision told me while my main focus stayed on making brownies. No pun intended.

After a moment my spider-sense tells me that Lady Bug has gotten very still and with children this is a flag. I look up and I see she has dug a piece of poptart out of the couch cushion and is thinking of eating it. The dog knows the drill and is sitting nearby waiting for her moment to snag a crusty stale treat. I quickly set my things aside and get up to retrieve the petrified pastry before she loses one of her first teeth.

I walk over and ask very affectionately, “What do you have there? Find some snacks?” She smiles cutely at me and places the piece in my already opened hand. Being closer to her I can now smell that she has a diaper in need of changing, probably from eating these crazy poptarts everyday. Those things are gut grenades and I momentarily consider banishing them.
That thought pauses; I notice brown streaks down part of her leg. The pale tan color is slightly darker than her peach colored skin and the brown is on her hands too. As my eyes have a discussion with my brain, they both follow the trail from her legs to her hands and finally to my hands.

Boom. I am holding a poop nugget shaped like a piece of a poptart.

You remember the last scene in “Sixth Sense” when you realize that Bruce Willis was dead the whole time? Then you go back and rethink what you have seen in context. Time slows in moments like this. I notice our dark brown couch has smears on a couple of the cushions and beside my favorite cup holder. I see why the dog is interested and that too is disgusting. I drop the poop and grab the baby in super slow motion.

Here I am, holding a toddler by her wrists and hanging her in the air while I consider my options. The poop that she handed me lands on the armrest of the couch and the dog is sniffing closer and closer. If I take the baby away then the dog will eat the poop and lick the couch. If I leave to get wipes or rags the baby will possibly keep painting and maybe even eat something. I look around and there are no wipes to be seen. I need a plan fast because oily turdness really greases those tiny wrists. She is trying to pull free. Plus the smell is just so fresh and awful.

A few more seconds of thinking and then I have my plan. I yell at the dog to get in her bed and I act mad so she slinks away to her cushion. Major disappointment from not getting a snack. I set the baby on a towel on the floor and I take her shirt halfway off leaving her arms and head tucked inside the shirt above her head. (I call this move the pajama straight jacket as it buys you time to grab clothes before the kid runs away or does something crazy.) I know she will struggle for a good thirty seconds before getting a hand free.

I sprint to the bathroom and grab two semi-wetted rags, a toilet paper roll, the garbage can, and I turn on the water in the tub. I throw a few squares of TP over the PoopTart as I pass. Just as I sit down beside her a hand comes free and I grab it with a wet rag. All the soiled linens go into the garbage can and the baby is airlifted to the half full tub. I scrub her like an Ebola patient and put her in a onesie (the only style of clothes she will wear from now until she is eighteen), brush her teeth just in case and then place her in the crib for a nap. I double back to the scene of the crime with bleach based cleaning products and the knowledge that nothing can totally clean stitching on a couch.

Something about pungent smells just stick in the upper parts of your nose. I feel soiled. I take a quick shower much like the one in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective after he realizes Lt. Einhorn is a man. I will always believe there are some things that soap doesn’t wash away. I throw all the offended clothing away because we have too much clothing anyway.
I find my quiet place and deal with the fact that I will have to touch the couch again someday. And the child.

For the parents who are busying living life and don’t notice a turd has been pulled out of a diaper and is being used as a substitute tanning product, this post is for you. Like they say, “S&@t Happens” You’re welcome.

Underdaddy to the rescue.