"I NO WEAR UNDER WEAR. I big boy BUT NO. UNDER. WEARS!"
Switching tactics, I threw the Mickey Mouse boxer briefs (yes, they make them... and filled out with a tiny tush they top my "cutest things I ever saw" list) to the side and pulled out a Mickey Mouse diaper (see a theme here?). Xander saw the diaper and wiggled away with a "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Nothing. Nothing. NAKEY PEANUT!!"
So, against every bit of good judgement I put legs back in his (Mickey Mouse) jammie bottoms, tucked a baby peanut in, and pulled them into place. Kissing his forehead, cause really it's cute to hear "NAKEY PEANUT" even at 6am and at 100 decibels, and pulled him into the upright and locked position. He smiled and climbed onto the couch to watch "CAILLOU NOW!".
He's almost three and feeling it, people. There is no longer a battle of wills, a battle of manners, a battle of "my kids will never act like that" realization that "my kids ALWAYS act like that", it's momma for herself and I needed to find the Keurig. And quick.
Zoe came downstairs and her sleepy eyes went from glossy to bright. No good morning from this kid, just a screetch worthy of a B grade horror movie, at least.
"What, baby? Zo, have you seen my Tazo tea for the Keurig? Did you drink it all?" (Yes, my four year old is a closet hot tea drinker. She likes it black, bold, and before preschool. She is also able to make a K cup in the time it takes me to change over a load of laundry.)
"He POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPED!"
"Ok, we all do. But really, where is the tea?" with my hind end hiked to the sky as I searched the bottom of the pantry (where no one should attempt to search without gloves, a mask, and tongs) for one misplaced cup.
"No. MOM. He pooped. On. The. COUCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
Then I remembered our "Nakey Peanut" incident an hour earlier. And then I heard Xander say, "Momma I did poo poo! Change me NOW!"
Before I could get out "DON'T MOVE!" I saw him squirm off my light green microfiber couch. Sure, I told the sales guy I wanted the cheapest cute set he had because I wanted the furniture to be disposable after two kids in five years, but not because my kid shit on it... at 7 am.
I saw it just in time to start gagging and dry upchucking. Xander started to cry and ran to me, but as the poop balls fell out of his jammies, hit his knees and ankles, plopped on our once-ivory builder-grade carpet it startled him. So he turned around with enough gusto to smush the turd balls into the carpet, get even more frightened, and flop his body into a two-year-old flop only a tantrum-throwing tot can do with perfection.
Meanwhile, my sidekick, my best friend is doing a perfect "My brother has defiled our home" performance (and soon reenactment) complete with gags, dry heaves, and "Oh no he didn't" thrown in for good measure.
The first thing that came to mind was RUN. Run in the opposite direction and never turn back around, but I pulled up my big girl panties, grabbed Xander (by his armpits) and ran to the toilet. Turds bombed the carpet, then ceramic tile, and I felt like my feet were Pearl Harbor under attack. I was hit, hit hard, but I kept moving. I wasn't leaving this little soldier in my arms behind.
We found the powder room (and for a nice home, we have a horrid powder room. It's cramped, cold, and you can barely get around the door to close it, so you can imagine the Cirque de Sol maneuvers to get us into the toilet). I yanked down those Mickey Mouse jams, plopped a sobbing babe on the potty (which on a good day makes him cry), and heard threw the sniffles (mine or his, not sure) "I all done, Momma. My poo poo all done."
This is the first time I realized just how much poo poo we were talking about. And, for the record, this collasol amount cannot be called poo poo, even if it came out of the cutest Mickey Mouse boxer briefs ever. Nope. This was SHIT, people. It was down his legs, smudged on his forehead, in his ear, and all over the front of the toilet. The stuck turds were freed when I pulled down his pants, so those were now let loose all over the powder room.
I stripped X down and told him not to move.
I did what any respectable momma would do with her child's most prized Mickey Mouse jammies Santa had just gifted her son. I threw them away. Immediately.
At this point I could survey the real damage and it wasn't good. It was horrific. My kitchen, living room, and couch not only lost the battle, but I was truly afraid they had lost the war.
Before I could clean anything I wiped X-man down with baby wipes and chucked him in a tub of bleach (California Baby 100% natural and organic, but I really did consider bleach) and told his sister in Act 2 of her production "Sit here. Watch him. Do not touch him. Just sit here. Scream if his head goes under."
I could hear "Mom... I'm only four. Am I allowed to watch a kid in a bath? Alone?" and I just kept jogging down the stairs.
My couch cushions are machine washable. The label says otherwise, but they are. They can also tolerate a little bleach (definitely Clorox this time - nothing organic in that load but the load he unloaded (pun intended)), a gallon of detergent, and even more bleach.
Woolite, Oxy-Clean, and Resolve bottles in varying stages of empty were now used, abused, and recycled.
Xander's water was cold at that point, so I did what any other respectable momma with a child covered in shit would do. Drained it, turned the shower on his unsuspecting head, drained that, and filled it up again with bubbles, warm water, and bleach.
Ok, it wasn't bleach this time, either, but I would have felt better if I did. I was having wild, poop smell induced flashes of my child having C-diff from this horrific morning, but I never did bleach the kid.
The carpet was the hardest. And the worst off. Apparently, when you call Stanley Steamers and cry, very very hard in Stan's ear (yeah, there's an awesome joke there but I was too exhausted to try it), he clears his schedule and makes it to your place. Quickly. With an OSHEA suit on.
Xander looked like an amphibean by the time he was sanitized and Zoe earned herself time on sproutonline.com for her heroics as the "my brother did not drown under my watch" champion.
By 10 am all was calm, all was bright, all was good. Except me. I could still be heard shaking and dry heaving in the laundry room. Pretty sure, a week later, I'm experiencing PTSD at 9 am and 4 pm daily (Xander is very regular now), but we'll make it. (And he can go to Kindergarten or even Prom in diapers if it means we will never have another morning like that one. Potty training smotty training.)
Switching tactics, I threw the Mickey Mouse boxer briefs (yes, they make them... and filled out with a tiny tush they top my "cutest things I ever saw" list) to the side and pulled out a Mickey Mouse diaper (see a theme here?). Xander saw the diaper and wiggled away with a "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Nothing. Nothing. NAKEY PEANUT!!"
So, against every bit of good judgement I put legs back in his (Mickey Mouse) jammie bottoms, tucked a baby peanut in, and pulled them into place. Kissing his forehead, cause really it's cute to hear "NAKEY PEANUT" even at 6am and at 100 decibels, and pulled him into the upright and locked position. He smiled and climbed onto the couch to watch "CAILLOU NOW!".
He's almost three and feeling it, people. There is no longer a battle of wills, a battle of manners, a battle of "my kids will never act like that" realization that "my kids ALWAYS act like that", it's momma for herself and I needed to find the Keurig. And quick.
Zoe came downstairs and her sleepy eyes went from glossy to bright. No good morning from this kid, just a screetch worthy of a B grade horror movie, at least.
"What, baby? Zo, have you seen my Tazo tea for the Keurig? Did you drink it all?" (Yes, my four year old is a closet hot tea drinker. She likes it black, bold, and before preschool. She is also able to make a K cup in the time it takes me to change over a load of laundry.)
"He POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPED!"
"Ok, we all do. But really, where is the tea?" with my hind end hiked to the sky as I searched the bottom of the pantry (where no one should attempt to search without gloves, a mask, and tongs) for one misplaced cup.
"No. MOM. He pooped. On. The. COUCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
Then I remembered our "Nakey Peanut" incident an hour earlier. And then I heard Xander say, "Momma I did poo poo! Change me NOW!"
Before I could get out "DON'T MOVE!" I saw him squirm off my light green microfiber couch. Sure, I told the sales guy I wanted the cheapest cute set he had because I wanted the furniture to be disposable after two kids in five years, but not because my kid shit on it... at 7 am.
I saw it just in time to start gagging and dry upchucking. Xander started to cry and ran to me, but as the poop balls fell out of his jammies, hit his knees and ankles, plopped on our once-ivory builder-grade carpet it startled him. So he turned around with enough gusto to smush the turd balls into the carpet, get even more frightened, and flop his body into a two-year-old flop only a tantrum-throwing tot can do with perfection.
Meanwhile, my sidekick, my best friend is doing a perfect "My brother has defiled our home" performance (and soon reenactment) complete with gags, dry heaves, and "Oh no he didn't" thrown in for good measure.
The first thing that came to mind was RUN. Run in the opposite direction and never turn back around, but I pulled up my big girl panties, grabbed Xander (by his armpits) and ran to the toilet. Turds bombed the carpet, then ceramic tile, and I felt like my feet were Pearl Harbor under attack. I was hit, hit hard, but I kept moving. I wasn't leaving this little soldier in my arms behind.
We found the powder room (and for a nice home, we have a horrid powder room. It's cramped, cold, and you can barely get around the door to close it, so you can imagine the Cirque de Sol maneuvers to get us into the toilet). I yanked down those Mickey Mouse jams, plopped a sobbing babe on the potty (which on a good day makes him cry), and heard threw the sniffles (mine or his, not sure) "I all done, Momma. My poo poo all done."
This is the first time I realized just how much poo poo we were talking about. And, for the record, this collasol amount cannot be called poo poo, even if it came out of the cutest Mickey Mouse boxer briefs ever. Nope. This was SHIT, people. It was down his legs, smudged on his forehead, in his ear, and all over the front of the toilet. The stuck turds were freed when I pulled down his pants, so those were now let loose all over the powder room.
I stripped X down and told him not to move.
I did what any respectable momma would do with her child's most prized Mickey Mouse jammies Santa had just gifted her son. I threw them away. Immediately.
At this point I could survey the real damage and it wasn't good. It was horrific. My kitchen, living room, and couch not only lost the battle, but I was truly afraid they had lost the war.
Before I could clean anything I wiped X-man down with baby wipes and chucked him in a tub of bleach (California Baby 100% natural and organic, but I really did consider bleach) and told his sister in Act 2 of her production "Sit here. Watch him. Do not touch him. Just sit here. Scream if his head goes under."
I could hear "Mom... I'm only four. Am I allowed to watch a kid in a bath? Alone?" and I just kept jogging down the stairs.
My couch cushions are machine washable. The label says otherwise, but they are. They can also tolerate a little bleach (definitely Clorox this time - nothing organic in that load but the load he unloaded (pun intended)), a gallon of detergent, and even more bleach.
Woolite, Oxy-Clean, and Resolve bottles in varying stages of empty were now used, abused, and recycled.
Xander's water was cold at that point, so I did what any other respectable momma with a child covered in shit would do. Drained it, turned the shower on his unsuspecting head, drained that, and filled it up again with bubbles, warm water, and bleach.
Ok, it wasn't bleach this time, either, but I would have felt better if I did. I was having wild, poop smell induced flashes of my child having C-diff from this horrific morning, but I never did bleach the kid.
The carpet was the hardest. And the worst off. Apparently, when you call Stanley Steamers and cry, very very hard in Stan's ear (yeah, there's an awesome joke there but I was too exhausted to try it), he clears his schedule and makes it to your place. Quickly. With an OSHEA suit on.
Xander looked like an amphibean by the time he was sanitized and Zoe earned herself time on sproutonline.com for her heroics as the "my brother did not drown under my watch" champion.
By 10 am all was calm, all was bright, all was good. Except me. I could still be heard shaking and dry heaving in the laundry room. Pretty sure, a week later, I'm experiencing PTSD at 9 am and 4 pm daily (Xander is very regular now), but we'll make it. (And he can go to Kindergarten or even Prom in diapers if it means we will never have another morning like that one. Potty training smotty training.)
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