Every once in a while, I’ll have a random flashback to my childhood and go, “What the hell were we THINKING?!” Especially now, when watching Jack play I like to reminisce of what pretend-time was for me. I even remember my best friend Sarah and I discussing as children when we didn’t have fun pretending anymore. It was almost as depressing as finding out “you know who” is really your parents. We just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t the same. I wonder if other kids reached an age where they recognized that their imaginations couldn’t entertain them as well as they used to. Looking back, some of the things we did for fun was either physically dangerous or psychologically messed up. It makes me wonder if our parents ever had any idea what the hell we were up to. Here’s what I mean: Continue reading
You think you know poop? You might-but I. Know. Poop. I was even a poop expert pre-baby. As a nurse, I can tell alot by your poop. What medications you take, whether you drink enough water, and-any nurse will agree-whether or not you have C-diff. I’m not kidding. I can seriously smell C-diff. NURSES CAN TELL YOU IF YOU HAVE C-DIFF. They won’t, though. Because they aren’t supposed to-but they totally know.
I know what you’re thinking. “THIS IS DISGUSTING WHY IS SHE TELLING ME THIS?!” Because I want to warn you. The story I’m about to share with you is all about poop. Duh.
At home, I am in charge of the cat’s litter box (on weekdays) and of course, my son’s glorious little diaper gifts. I take the dogs out once or twice a day. **I feel like my husband will want you to know that he takes the dogs to the park every day-and that I never take them to the park. Ever. And that usually, the dogs are with him when they poop.** Still, they poop sometimes with me. I am often the one (due to my husband’s weird sleeping schedule) to clean up animal vomit and what-not.
So, here is what went down yesterday. I brought my one year old son home from a very long car trip to a restaurant (50 miles away) and then to another restaurant (20 miles away) because the former was closed. I got the pot roast and for the first time EVER it was awful. I sent it back for some fried chicken that wasn’t ready until we were about to leave. The point is, it had been a long day.
I get home and put my son down to get things in the house. I’ve already given him a bath before dinner in hopes that he would be asleep when we get home. Nope. He starts to play and then suddenly stops. Completely frozen in his familiar “I’m taking a giant dump” pose. I wait. As I am changing him, I notice his cute little tushy is a bit red. I decide to let it air out a little before I put some cream on it and get him ready for bed.
This is when I notice that in the other room, the litter box has been removed 15 feet from its original location. It is overturned, lid off, and the carpet is covered in poop-filled litter. There is literally NO litter in the damned box. We have wooden floors, but of course, as is my dog’s want, all of the litter and its contents are directly on top of the only rug in the entire stupid room. Instead of getting insanely agitated, I decide to just go in there and clean it up before I even have a chance to feel sorry for myself. Sometimes, when I have to clean up a mess like this, I get angry with the entire world. Like God told the dog to go dump out the litter box because I deserve punishment for cursing at the lady who wouldn’t get out of the fast lane yesterday.
So, I clean it up. Scoop the poop. Throw it out. Sweep the room. Vacuum the rug. Return the litter box. Then, I go back to the den to get my baby ready for bed so I can CHILL THE HELL OUT.
As I walk into the den, I notice a familiar smell. I wonder, “Is that just because I just scooped poop? Nope. That is definitely toddler poop. Perhaps, it is from the diaper I changed when we got home.” (Yes. I really do wonder to myself like that.) NOPE. My sweet little angel has just had diarrhea in two separate locations of the room. The fully carpeted room. The child, who JUST took a dump and usually doesn’t take another dump immediately after, has pooped ALL OVER THE CARPET. Oh, well. This one is totally on me. I’ll just throw a diaper on him, put his PJs on and off to bed he goes while I clean this up. Right? NOPE.
First, I wipe his precious little behind, then I slap a diaper on him, and as I pick him up to put his pajamas on him, I notice the bottom of his feet. Both of them. You’ll never guess what it was. Kidding. You will. It was poop. MORE POOP. At this point, it is on baby AND mommy. To the bath we go.
Thirty minutes later, we are both clean and ready for bed. I put him in his crib and thank you JESUS he immediately lays down like “Thanks, Mom. Today was exhausting. Holla.”
I’m feeling a little better. Calmer. Cleaner. I walk back into the den ready to relax when something mushy and wet on the bottom of my foot quietly reminded me that “UM. DUH. THE WHOLE REASON YOU JUST TOOK A BATH WITH YOUR BABY IS BECAUSE HE DROPPED A MAJOR DEUCE ON YOUR DEN FLOOR .” I wash my feet. I clean the carpet. I am done for the day. I finally give up on life and go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day-and hey-shit happens.
This is Heidi:
This is Hobbes:
We love them so much. We want them to bark. We want them to alert us of predators loitering in our garage. We want them to scare away the people who are trying to sell us something. We want them to wake us from a deep slumber if our house is on fire. BUT OH MY GOD WILL YOU PLEASE STOP BARKING AT THE LITTLE GIRL PLAYING DRESS-UP IN HER DRIVEWAY?!?! Heidi? Hobbes? While we appreciate you and your amazing skills, I need to explain to you why sometimes, it’s really unnecessary. Here are some really stupid things that make you bark: Continue reading