It's probably taken me so long to write about it because I am just now able to re-live it.
Baby Wonder has a hard time pooping.
Yes, I'm going there. Turn back now if you'd like, I won't be offended. Baby Wonder may be though, if he learns at 15 that I disclosed this information to the world. But as of now, that's neither here nor there. Moving on.
This pooping problem is helped by the use of a daily dose of Miralax, which is the only thing that has seemed to help. We call this his "Superman Juice". Prior to this discovery, my poor baby was terrified to go, and a diaper change only came after hours (literally) of crying and pushing. Broke our hearts.
Unfortunately, Miralax can also cause things to get a little... runny. That's where our story begins.
Bathtime. 7 PM.
Normally the Mr. is still home at this point, as his shift starts after Baby Wonder gets to bed. Not this night. Duty calls this particular evening and he has to be at court by 6. So it's just the two of us. Normally something I can handle remarkably well.
Right before Baby Wonder is stripped down, he starts to turn a little red. This is my cue to leave the diaper ON. Couple minutes go by, and I clean him up and deposit him into the tub because he's finished.
Or so I thought.
We're splishing and splashing and playing with toys when all of a sudden he quickly stands.
Not two minutes into Baby Wonder's bath and he lets loose in the bathtub.
I am appalled, but still able to hold myself together. I pull the removable shower head down and hose him off, because, yes, it has run down his legs and is floating in horrible semi-clotted animal-shaped shit clouds around my bathtub.
STOP crying. It's just the shower head.
I'm the one who should be cringing. What's your problem? You're the one who chose to poo the water you're standing in. Dogs don't even do that.
Your face is still dirty from dinner. You haven't even been in here long enough for me to clean off spaghetti. Now this.
Why are YOU crying? I'm the one who has to bleach out the tub. You get to stand here naked until I take your own personal toilet bowl down to its pre-painted finish.
I shower here, by the way.
The tub is drained, clots and all. Let's be honest. It's a rental. And I'm not scooping watery, Miralax-infused baby turds out with my hands. We'll just cross our fingers and hope God has a sense of humor.
Which it turns out, He does.
Baby Wonder is rinsed, and I set him out of the tub behind me so I can proceed with the bleaching, or whatever other chemical I can come up with to calm my gag reflex the next time I put my bare feet in my son's cesspool.
As stated above, I set Baby Wonder behind me. What I did not clarify, though it is implied, is that he is still naked as the day he was born. This is important. Read on.
The tub and toys are cleaned to satisfaction. While cleaning, I have perfect faith that my son is still in the bathroom with me.
Oh, he's still there all right.
I smile with pride at my speediness and ability to multitask. I turn, as he is now standing right next to me, and say sweetly, "Ok baby, let's try this again."
For the sake of this story I get that whole sentence out. In reality, it does not end with real words, but more of a guttural shriek of terror as I notice out of the corner of my eye the bathroom I had my back turned on.
There. Is. Poop. Everywhere.
Have you ever been so frozen in a moment that you actually cannot move? Everything freezes, except my face. I'm back to the face.
I'm not just talking about a pile of neatly placed poop in a private corner. Nah. I'm talking a multitude of watery Toddler Turds all over my bathmats and builder-grade linoleum.
Baby Wonder looks at me as if he, too, is surprised by this. As if he has no idea how the bathroom came to this state, as if the poop running down his leg has nothing to do with what is on the floors.
Why, Mother. Do you see this? Quite the mystery.
As I sit in shock, still on the side of the bathtub, scrub brush in hand, I do the only thing I am capable of doing.
I laugh the hysterical, deranged laugh of a woman who is up to her elbows in human waste. I cry, but continue to laugh, therefore cementing my place in a terrible, momentary word of Real or Not Real.
My son seems to find amusment in my expression.
He giggles.
And takes off, a river nasty running down his legs and coming dangerously close to the carpet I cannot afford to replace.
Oh, no way. Get back here you little demon.
We're not packing up and moving because we can't get your poop out of the carpet.
This is NOT funny. Just because I'm laughing does not mean this is funny.
I catch him and deposit him back in the tub, rinsing him off again with the shower head.
The carpet escaped permanent damage.
I am still healing.
I'm glad I had the presence of mind to capture the pictures I did. Even while it was happening, I knew I would never let him live this down.
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