Motherhood is not for the weak stomached. I've caught puke in my bare hands as the kids threw up and couldn't get to the bathroom. I've been peed on and pooped on, and cleaned up a spectacular mess made by Little Man when he had projectile poop across the NICU. I've been spit up all over and been puked on in my hair and down my shirt. Nothing I couldn't handle. I've never had a kid get into poop artwork, and I've only had one incidence of poop in the tub. The worst poop problem we've had here is Sunny taking off her poopy diaper and throwing it at me. It was bound to happen sooner or later. So really, I shouldn't have been surprised (NOTE: If you have a weak stomach, read no further. You have been warned).
Sunny attends preschool in the next town south of here, a distance of about 10 miles that takes about a 20 minute drive. I like to leave a bit early to pick her up at her 1pm dismissal, because Nemo falls asleep in the car and that's the best way to ensure he gets a decent nap before we go meet BigDaddyFish for lunch. I usually leave about 12:15, after Nemo has had a chance to watch his favorite Noggin show, Oswald.
This morning, I was in the kitchen
looking at porn reading blogs doing the dishes, and Nemo came up to our kitchen gate, crying and spitting and saying something about "Chock-lit." He held something in his hand, and I figured he picked up a piece of stray chocolate from the floor or in the couch cushions that I hadn't found on my cleaning binge and was trying to eat it.
"No! Dirty, Nemo, dirty, don't eat that! Spit it out!" I told him as I ran from the sink to the kitchen gate. He continued sputtering and coughing and gagged and threw up a bit. I reached him and the stench was unbearable.
"Nemo! What did you do? Are you okay? What did you eat?!?" I shrieked as he shoved his hand down the front of his pants again, muttering about the chocklit and "messy". That's when it hit me.
Nemo has developed a habit lately of putting his hand down his diaper and playing with himself. Today, he apparently grabbed a turd and pulled it out of his diaper, and thought it looked an awful lot like chocolate. He learned the folly in that pretty quick.
Choking down my own puke, I grabbed the wipes and stripped him. He had apparently been squishing around in there and in an effort to clean the mess off his hands, he'd wiped them on his sweatshirt. I went at him with about eleventy million wipes (and I pride myself on my two-wipe diaper changes, so that's saying something) and finally decided it was just too much of a mess and made a dash for the tub.
One emergency bath later, I crammed him in clean clothes at 12:35, anxiously watching the clock. Although he was clean he still had poopbreath, so I grabbed a couple of Grasshopper cookies to deal with that. BDF had said he would pick up Sunny and meet me in the parking lot, so I wasn't too worried, but still wanted to make it. I got in the car at 12:43 and BDF texted me that he had a meeting and couldn't make it to pick up Sunny. So I skedaddled. I pulled into the parking lot at 12:58.
And that is why I will be having tequila tonight. The end.