Elliot must have sensed the sadness that was yesterday’s blog post. How else to explain the hilarious blog fodder she delivered to me last night?
I suppose I should mention that she is in the midst of potty training and is doing well (well, besides peeing on her favorite daycare worker yesterday. When I told her that maybe we should try not peeing on Denise today, she said, “Ya. I pee on Da-nees. She like dat.” Nice.)
So, anyway, at 9:30 last night I hear a happy voice from upstairs calling, “Mommy, I wake up!” I walked upstairs for what I assumed would be a civilized chat involving me insisting she go back to bed and her obeying. I was careful not to turn on the hallway light so that she would stay in a semi-sleepy state. While talking to her, I couldn’t help but notice a strong smell of poo. She confirmed that it was indeed poo when asked, but something didn’t seem quite right. I patted her butt to feel the tell-tale lump in her diaper, only to feel nothing. Not even a diaper. “Buddy, where’s your diaper?” “Over there,” she said. This phrase, of course, necessitated me turning on the lights.
Nothing could have prepared me for the extent of the poo massacre that lay before me. Mountains and mountains of poo. Entire poo villages. Overall poo carnage. My overwhelmed body paused, unsure of where to start the clean-up and instantly regretting my decision not to purchase a hazmat suit for just such an occasion.
Because she is helpful and independent to a fault, it appeared Elliot had tried to clean up her own poo. The poor thing even had the courtesy to put her pants back on. Sure, both legs were crammed into the same pantleg so she stood before me like a vulnerable flannel penguin, but the thought was there. Her soiled diaper lay (face-up – thank God!) beside her bedroom door on one side of the hallway. Then there was the poo on the bottom of the bathroom door. All over her bathroom stool (yes, I’m aware of the double-meaning). Poo on the toilet seat and poo lining the counter in front of the sink where she had tried unsuccessfully to wash her hands. My God! Her hands! I didn’t even think to look at… “ELLIOT! Get your hands out of your mouth! No, no. Honey. Please, just don’t touch anything!”
Luckily, the valiant husband ran to the rescue with bleach and soap reinforcements, rescuing me from Poo Palace. I wiped down every inch of the kid’s body (this is the part where I decided to delude myself that she was the victim of an unfortunate chocolate pudding explosion, rather than think about what I was actually cleaning off of her legs, face, and hands) and left Jay to sterilize the rest of the hot zone.
I then ushered the shiny clean lady off to bed with her requisite four books and baby doll. Please, please cross your fingers for me that she has the foresight to call for help next time. Or that if this should happen again, that I actually hear her early on while she is cavorting with her poo with only the light of the moon to guide her. Because I just don’t think this will be nearly as entertaining a second time around.
After potty training is complete, perhaps a few lessons in nighttime bathroom usage are in order. That, and the use of lights at night to help one use said bathroom.
OMG. At least she called you. Can you imagine if she’d just gone back to bed? You’d have woken up to dried-on poo…
Shit stories, gotta love ‘em.
Point taken, Sarah. I wasn’t anticipating having to give that lesson so soon, but as you can see Elliot had other ideas.
And Molly, don’t think I didn’t shudder thinking about your scenario. The only thing worse than cleaning up new poo, is cleaning up old, dry, cakey poo.
Oh, and Larsen. How did I know you would enjoy this?
Oh gosh. The phrase Post-traumatic Stress Syndrome comes to mind. You definitely would qualify.
That’s when you wish you could just take a fire hose full of Clorox and hose down the house. Or buy another.