Butter Finger

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.

If you have cleaned up a miniature Mr. Hanky murder scene, this post is for you. I have posts named Yard Biscuit and Couch Croissant so now Butter Finger goes in the file. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.


  1. Having gone through bottomless potty training and currently going through diaper rash that requires bottomless “airing out,” I’d like to thank you for posting this. Because…yes…it is like cleaning up a murder scene. Once we had the dog thrown in the mix–one of “those” diapers that he got into…and destroyed…destroyed up the walls, and across the floor…

    Bleach. Bleach is the word…

    You are a super hero and you stand for Truth, Justice and The Fatherhood Way.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Absolutely. We had a dog eat half a cornish hen and she crapped the entire house at 3 am. I just havent figured out how to condense my trauma into a 1500 word blog post. Dog smearing a poo diaper sounds hellish. I do not envy any part of that.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Uuuuuuuurrrrggggghhhhhhh….3am…why must all emergencies dealing with feces happen at 3am? It’s like some kind of rude rule of bowel issues or something. Seriously, you write that, and I’ll read it and stand up and cheer like Rocky Horror Picture Show.

        Yeah, it took the dog like 3 minutes to make our hallway a horror. I about cried before I shoved the dog in the bathroom. It began a daily ritual of sticking the dog in the kennel…


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