Warning: The word “Stinky” is to be taken seriously…
I’m in the mirror this morning caught in Glam Girl Limbo (Makeup done…hair? Not so much) when The Baby comes and tells me, “Mommy Shtinky.” I placed her on the toilet and she hopped back off, which is what she does when she doesn’t have to do any business. She had just went Pee-Pee minutes earlier and I left her pamper off to risk the Waterworks while I fiddled with my hair. (I’m so smart)
She came to me again as I wrestled with Hair Strand #52. “Mommy Shtinky.” I asked her if she had to go (duh!), but she walked off.
Mommy Alarms blared, “Abort Hair Mission! She’s going to blow! Abort, Abort!” But, #52 was almost in submission…just a few more minutes.
“Mommy,” she says grabbing her butt and pointing across the room. “Wook, come here. Wook, Shtinky. I shtinky.”
I follow her to the other side of the bed, fully knowing what I was getting ready to “wook” at...the last turd standing.
From her “shtinky” babbling I could tell she was deeply offended I made her do it on the floor, but I tuned her out to formulate a plan. I picked her up and placed her on the toilet, mostly to get her out of the way so I could at least get the turd up. Of course, she tried to hop off, smearing sh!t on the seat as she squirmed. Upon closer inspection, I saw it was on her thighs and feet (No!) and a trail led right back to the turd offender.
The sh!t just got serious. I needed backup.
I yelled for Hubs and as he bounded up the stairs I told him to proceed with caution. He walked across the room as if he were avoiding landmines and scooped her up. With her legs dangling, I noticed the smearing was a result of a chunk clinging to her butt.
He plopped her in the tub and I broke out the Lysol cleaner. Thankfully, we have hardwood floors. If we had carpet, X-Mom would’ve gone ballistic.
As I’m cleaning I hear The Kid grilling Hubs. “What happened? What did mommy say to you? No, when she yelled for you. No, the thing before that…no, the other thing. Yeah...that…what did she say?”
Satisfied with his answers, she decides to view the crime scene and enters our room, where I immediately stop her. What was she, Sh!tlock Holmes? I was in the middle of a turd-off and wasn’t in the mood for her counter-productive investigative tactics just so she could broadcast, “OMG! My sister pooped on the floor!” to her tweeny friends.
As I finished up I accepted the whole thing was my fault. The Baby told me she had to go—several times—but I didn’t listen.
But, it made me think…
Sometimes we can see sh!t coming and yet we do nothing to stop it.