A week ago, I confessed to my overconfidence in taking care of my three small children for a week without any help. Well, as it turns out, I was right. It’s been easy. Hectic and loud – but more or less easy. Seriously – I deal with all of the same chaos when my husband isn’t out of town. So the only difference this week has been that I haven’t have to clean up after him too.
All in all, I’ve been so busy that the week has felt like a few days. I’m either at home dealing with babies or at work dealing with babies. Both scenarios allow for very little brooding time. So I’ve barely had the opportunity to miss Chris. And the fact that things have gone so well eliminates any murderous feelings that I may have to deal with upon his return. There will be no baleful looks or put upon sighs from me. His homecoming will be full of rainbows and unicorns.
With one exception.
I am still feeling good about the week and getting through it with such flying colors…but in the end I had to be punished for my hubris. Whether I confessed it or not – I still felt it. And I paid for it tonight. So my Friday confession is really just a reiteration of what I confessed last week. And the gods have in fact punished me for this fatal flaw. Tonight. In excrement.
Oliver has been sick for the past couple of days. Just a bad cold – but he hasn’t been himself. He’s not eating, he’s weepy over the smallest of things and it’s hard to wake him up in the morning (if he was a single woman I would think that someone just broke up with him). But in general, he’s still been a good boy and I’ve taken it in stride.
It has been a long time since I’ve had to worry about leaving Oliver in another room unsupervised. He doesn’t try to swallow small objects or stick fingers in electrical outlets anymore. He’s my “big boy.” He’s going to be four in a few months and has been potty trained since last summer. Worst case scenario – he may wet his pants if he can’t make it to the bathroom in time.
And that paragraph above is the second part of my damning hubris. I thought everything this week was “easy” AND I assumed that my potty trained child could be left alone for 20 minutes while I put the twins to bed.
After all of that build up, I’ll just cut to the chase: I heard Oliver calling for me and assumed that he needed a tissue – or at worst, had an accident. It was in fact, the worst case scenario – but far, far worse than pee pee pants…
I came downstairs to find my son standing there, holding his hands up in what appeared to be two catchers mitts. That’s right – his hands were completely covered in something brown. And I don’t think I need to elaborate on what that substance was.
[Insert hyperventilating mother here.]
I THINK that he pooped his pants (something that hasn’t happened since last summer) and then decided to “check it out.” Honestly – I have no idea why he did it… But he obviously knew that it was a bad move since he sounded the alarm.
I then had to carry all 50+ lbs of him up the stairs at arms length in order to get him to a sink where I could clean him off. THANK GOD he didn’t touch anything before I found him. As it was, I just barely avoided passing out from the stench.
Don’t get me wrong – I have two year old twins who are not potty trained, and I touch poop daily. But I don’t have to remove layers of it from their hands. And when a child is pushing four years old, that’s no longer baby poop. It’s man poop. Just imagine if you had to wash poop off of a man’s hands. It’s beyond gross.
After emptying the full bottle of liquid soap in my efforts to decontaminate my son’s hands, I then used up a bottle of Fabreez air freshener at the scene of the crime.
Oliver seemed to be aware of my displeasure, but I could have done with a little more remorse on his part. I mean really – he’s lucky I didn’t hose him off on the back deck, which is steps away from where I found him covered in poop.
There are so many wonderful things about being a mom… This is not one of them.
I can’t promise that I won’t tempt fate again by gloating over my minor parenting accomplishments. But I will never again say that my child is potty trained. Not out loud at least. And if I absolutely have to, I will make that horn gesture with my hands and spit a few times. Don’t think I’m kidding! Hades has nothing on my poop scented basement.
Didn’t anyone ever tell you the first rule about potty training… “don’t talk about potty training.”
Now you know.
oh my goodness gracious. Hopefully I won’t receive a similar gift on Monday when my hubby returns.
Yours in solidarity, truly. I’m not sure potty training will ever be considered final in this house. Maybe when they are ten.
You know, our situations are reversed – (cause I have two almost fours and one almost 2) – which is probably a little easier, but I find we do okay on our own too. EXCEPT, I always have the exact amount of time in my mind and God forbid it should be exceeded for any reason.
Although all that was such a long time ago for me, I feel for you Kate, I really do…
Oh, I have tears in my eyes from laughing after reading this… the kind of tears only a woman without children can have. Haha! I’m sorry for PoopGate 2009 and if it’s any consolation, my 39-year-old husband makes messes equivalent to those of a four year old and has the mentality of a 14 year old.
Love your blog so much.
PS: My word verification is “canipee” but for some reason, “canipoo” would have have seemed much more apropos!
There is a HUGE difference between baby poop and 4 year old poop, I am with you there. When my kids hit about 3 they better be potty trained because I have no interest in cleaning up adult smelling and looking poop. (girls are much easier to potty train than boys)
“It’s man poop”
That made me laugh hysterically. And also gag a little.
And this is why we blog. So moms from around the country can laugh with you and at you, thankful in the knowledge that it’s not them…this time.
Kristen’s Fight Club reference cracked me up!
Oh, the dreaded poop hands! (Loved your catcher’s mitt analogy!)
You handled it like a champ!
Hope today is a better and sweeter-smelling day! I send you love and moral support from afar.
Oh no, no, no, no. That is so wrong that you’re being “punished” like this. Hoping the colors turn from brown bottoms to blue skies soon!
Hubris, fate, motherhood. You’re still a heroine in my book.
Oh, I’m sorry. So so sorry and I can empathize. I have been there recently with my kid…and there is no point to rehashing the incident. Besides I like to pretend it never happened. It was that bad.
Well done, Kate. You made it through your week sanity intact.
This had me laughing so incredibly hard. At least you didn’t let the kid run up to you and sitck his hands in your mouth like a friend of mine. I wasn’t even thinking about being a mother at that point, but even I understand that you never ever ever let a kid with ‘catcher’s mitt’ colored hands get anywhere near your mouth! Great story! And while I am so looking forward to being a mom, this is a bit intimidating. :)
Dear Lord, Kate, you are definitely a Mommy Blogger now! Ewwww…. catcher’s mitts and man poop? Very descriptive, I must say.
This is the best laugh I’ve had in a long time. xo
I love hubris, too. I’m so glad I know there’s a soul mate out there now. . .
LOL! “Had to carry him at arm’s length to avoid passing out from the stench” LOL! You’re funny! :)
Love your blog “Its man poop”… I cried laughing!!!!
ONLY for my child would I do that. ONLY
You still did a great job! Poop happens. Totally not your fault.
…..everybody poops??
You’re such a trooper. I hope you followed all that up with a tall glass of wine. Perhaps skipping the glass and going straight to the bottle.
Kate, thank you for your kindness and goodness and for leaving some love, and indeed, magic, for me today! xox
Wow! That is gross. But a little funny…a little ..noe Im not laughing
I’m so sorry to laugh BUT it was funny!!! DooDoo Occurs!!! : ) xo
Oh holy hell. For the record, I’m impressed that you didn’t barf somewhere in there. I know I would’ve.
man poop sucks!
holy shit. (pun intended…)
Ewwwwwwwwwww.
So sorry that happened to you… check under your fingernails: trust me when I say that- I’ve been there.