I am lucky.
WE are lucky.
Since Eddie was born in 2009, we have had maybe five memorable blowouts. The one where I thought he didn’t poop at all only to find it all in the foot of his jammies sticks out in my mind here.
(WARNING: if you have a weak stomach when it comes to poo, now would be the time to pass on this post. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. )
But this fall I encountered something so gruesome it’s taken me over a month to be able to write about it.
As you may know, Cort is taking classes this semester. That means he is gone on Thursday nights from dinner time until after Eddie and I are both in bed.
One of the first Thursday nights that Cort was gone, and after Eddie and I had dinner, I decided that the boy needed a bath before bed.
I was still in my first trimester. This is important because I was still nauseous all the time.
Eddie’s latest rave was to have a “bubbles bath,” so, because he had been extra good for me at dinner, I loaded up the bubbles into the tub.
While he soaked and played, I walked from his room to the kitchen (which means I walked past the bathroom door) a thousand times getting his diapers and extra clothes ready to go to his new daycare.
The whole time he chatted with me as I walked past and I kept saying, “wow. yup. mmmhmmm. row row the boat! good!”
Finally, I walked into the bathroom to wash his hair and scrub him up.
I turned on the water to fill up the tub cup (I didn’t want to wash his hair with the bubbley water in case it would sting his eyes).
Then I shampooed up his curls and put a soapy faux-hawk in his hair, which we both giggled about.
Now mind you, there were still so many bubbles in the tub, I could hardly see his toys that were in there.
So I scoop up some water to rinse his shampoo out and I notice something.
The water is sort of murky under the bubbles.
What the….? Why is ALL the water brown? Wait…what are these solids?
All of a sudden I drop the cup and I look at my shampooed, bubbly little boy and ask, “Eddie? Did you go poop in the tub?”
His smile fades.
And I turn to the toilet and vomit.
When I look back he has a terrified look on his face and I realize he thinks he did something very bad. Which he did…but he really didn’t.
So I started to think. I needed to get my child out of the semi-liquid poop tub that he had been playing in.
He was too big for any sink.
Wait! We finished the bathroom downstairs! We would go down there!
So I calmly told him he need to get out and we would finish the bath downstairs. That it would be fun! A new adventure! We would put bubbles down there too!
I lifted him out, bubbles clingy to his bootycakes and shampoo faux-hawk still in his hair, and set him on the rug.
I grabbed the bottle of bubbles and I held his hand as he very nudely walked down the hall, down the stairs to the landing, down the rest of the stairs, and into our new bathroom.
I asked if he wanted to put the bubbles in and that made him happy, so he dumped the new bubbles in the tub.
After I set him in, I dashed upstairs to grab a few toys, a clean cup to rinse his hair, and a towel. I also held my breath, looked away, and stuck my hand in the poop water to let it drain.
And decided to close the door and let Cort deal with it when he got home.
Eddie’s downstairs bath didn’t last long.
After we got him washed up, he asked to get out.
I didn’t blame him.
I did text Cort to warn him of the poop-splosion in the upstairs bathroom.
He took care of it when he got home without even a gag.
And Eddie hasn’t pooped in the tub since. In fact, he announces now that the tub is not where we poop.
At least I know he’s paying attention.