Two hours ago, my husband told me he and my three year old would be taking a Sunday nap. 5 minutes ago, I checked my e-mail and found the following:
So there I was……asleep. I vaguely heard the sound of a toilet lid being raised or lowered in the distance. About the time my mind concluded that it was in fact a toilet and that the source of the sound was approaching my location, I saw it, dangling at the end of a tiny arm, about the time my sleeping brain processed the sight, the smell arrived, deftly confirming that it was in fact, poop. Yes a toddler extending a soiled diaper exclaiming, “Look”, as though I could do anything other than show the horror in my eyes and the uncontrollable cringing of lips and cheeks, gnarled in disgust. Yes, it was a dirty diaper being thrust into my face whilst I slept, but most importantly, the foul source of the mess was clearly absent from the center of this horrible cornucopia. I quickly reached-out and snatched the diaper, lunging to my feet. Questions began to fly” What, How, Why, Who did you”? “Crap”? Yes it was crap and plenty of it.
Internal monologue was screaming, “No, he brought it to you and that is good right? No it is errant Human feces, it is always bad. Why on earth would he. Wait, where is the payload? How did he think this was what his potty training was leading-up-to? Did he slide down the stairs like that? Thank goodness we don’t have carpet in this house”.
Yes, he did in fact walk to me in our room holding a dirty, used diaper, un-wiped, and telling me to look as though some success needed to be celebrated. After he was scoured in the tub and with wipes, I had no choice but to go on the hunt. That’s right, ‘a crapspedition’. As I crawled on hands and knees retracing his likely steps from upstairs to downstairs now armed with three washcloths and antibacterial cleaners hanging like sidearms from the waistband of my pants, I was never so vigilant and never so suspicious of every speck on our floors. Third stair up, I was on the septic little trail. I found some suspect crumbs and smears of nastiness and continued my mantra , “poop is Icky, we have to clean it”, J giggled downstairs, now wearing an Olaf costume ball cap as though everything was fine. “Poop is yucky, we have to clean it”, I moaned in reply. that was when the smell hit me like a ton of….well a ton of something that has to be cleaned. I looked-up and saw a closed toddler bedroom door. No doubt he had sealed it like a coffin as he exited to avoid certain DooDoom. The overpowering smell was at least as bad as any truck stop restroom I have ever encountered.
As I carefully followed the treacherous trail, I noticed, the smell was coming from the open bathroom door to my right in the hall. There it was, peering up at me from its porcelain prison. A 2 flush job and a bowl scrub required. Then I continued the hunt toward his room, the inevitable ground zero for this poopacalypse. As I suspected, there were signs of a struggle. Not the struggle of trying to be responsible and hold it or get to the potty, maybe even alert the authorities; no it was the other kind. Play had occurred here, the kind of play that can’t be interrupted by going to the potty. Comforter, floor, and circus tent, all victims of this atrocity. I write this unable to continue the hunt for more. And that is why you can’t nap for 30 minutes around here. Even the slightest rest could leave you wondering if that behavior was good at its core. Do you reward dumping poop in the toilet or scold the delivery of the empty diaper, a memory that will make sleep lightly for weeks? Or do you instead say everything will be covered in saran wrap and painter’s tarps until he is 7?
I love this man.
“I thought your family would enjoy this”, he said. 8 years of being married into the Allen family has finally warped him.
To all of you trying to nap and potty-train, you aren’t alone.