She beckoned me from the top of the stairs. She might have said, “Dad!” but with the pacifier she sounds like a kidnap victim trying to talk through duct tape. “MMmm!” I notice she is pointing at the ceiling while walking down the stairs. How curious.
“What could be on the ceiling?” I thought to myself, “What could this small peach colored child possibly be pointing at with her abnormally large, dark brown finger?”
Maybe she wants one of something. Maybe she is telling me that I am number one. Maybe she is trying to dance disco style. Why is the finger brown?
Oh. Oh no.
“Mommy! Code brown!”
We quickly isolate the offending finger and the other hand just to be safe. I can smell the evidence. The small hope that I held out for her brown finger being melted chocolate quickly disappeared. Guess it is bath night. Judging from the size of the diaper, she was just trying to keep it from squeezing out the top. Lots of poop.
Pretty standard stuff really except for one thing. She had been playing in the playroom for the last thirty minutes and she had been alone. Hazmat level 3.
Armed with a bag of generic wipes I ventured into the crime scene. Time to remove the evidence.
I wonder to myself if serial killers feel like this when they are cleaning up blood spatter. The same principles apply.
1) If you miss any it will come back to haunt you.
2) When in doubt wipe it down and bleach it.
3) This will always be in the back of your mind. Others may forget. Evidence may dry up. You will live with this for a long time.
4) Stuffed animals and clothing can’t be trusted. Burn them.
The danger has passed and the house is sanitized. Fingernails have been scrubbed. Luckily the evidence in the playroom was minimal. I think she struck oil and immediately came for ass-istance. Good girl. Asking for help is a sign of maturity and strength.
-Underdaddy to the rescue.