Month 20: A Sunday short story
Parenting disasters happen so fast you don’t even realize you’re in one until it’s over and you step back to assess the damage. Or in this Sunday tale, the poop stains.
My toddler had been a terrorist all day. My husband finished mowing the grass and we planned to go have a nice Sunday brunch as a family. But, as John Michael shrieked and howled over whatever new tragedy had befallen his toddler body (I’m pretty sure it was the wrong version of Baby Shark playing. Not the lack of the song, just too upbeat of a rendition). We realized brunch was a terrible idea.
So, we warmed leftover pizza. And, I told my husband I was about to leave for a pedicure or shopping during nap time, I hadn’t decided which. He’s the best, so he insisted on both. And, after zero persuasion time, I said. Okay! (In my head it was more of a Cardi B inflection.)
As we were finishing up lunch, and I’m planning to get out of there faster than you can upload all your pictures to Russia, our toddler starts pointing and whining at something in concern to get our attention.
We both look down and my husband says, "What is that?" I assumed it was some crumbs.
Nope. I was wrong. So wrong.
It looks like what I can only describe as cat vomit.
We don’t have a cat.
I pick it up with a paper towel and my husband says, “Is that poop?” Surely not. The kid has khaki shorts and a diaper on.
It’s. Poop.
Well. Seeing as I put on that dysfunctional diaper and I’m trying to position myself for some guilt-free mommy time, I start cleaning him up, thinking surely I won’t need backup.
Putting a diaper on my kid in the first place is sort of like dancing with a rabid skunk. This skunk was in shorts covered in his own feces.
So, I’m trying to maneuver him in a way as to not spread any more poo particles than necessary. My husband is tweeting about the whole ordeal while watching golf from the living room:
At this point John Michael is standing up and I’m trying to get a wipe in there. This kid. Sits. On my foot. With his nasty poo booty. And just giggles.
As I left I told my husband, good luck with the teen years.
Let’s just say I tipped extra on that pedicure.
I guess the moral is, sh*t happens.
My toddler had been a terrorist all day. My husband finished mowing the grass and we planned to go have a nice Sunday brunch as a family. But, as John Michael shrieked and howled over whatever new tragedy had befallen his toddler body (I’m pretty sure it was the wrong version of Baby Shark playing. Not the lack of the song, just too upbeat of a rendition). We realized brunch was a terrible idea.
So, we warmed leftover pizza. And, I told my husband I was about to leave for a pedicure or shopping during nap time, I hadn’t decided which. He’s the best, so he insisted on both. And, after zero persuasion time, I said. Okay! (In my head it was more of a Cardi B inflection.)
As we were finishing up lunch, and I’m planning to get out of there faster than you can upload all your pictures to Russia, our toddler starts pointing and whining at something in concern to get our attention.
We both look down and my husband says, "What is that?" I assumed it was some crumbs.
Nope. I was wrong. So wrong.
It looks like what I can only describe as cat vomit.
We don’t have a cat.
I pick it up with a paper towel and my husband says, “Is that poop?” Surely not. The kid has khaki shorts and a diaper on.
It’s. Poop.
Well. Seeing as I put on that dysfunctional diaper and I’m trying to position myself for some guilt-free mommy time, I start cleaning him up, thinking surely I won’t need backup.
Putting a diaper on my kid in the first place is sort of like dancing with a rabid skunk. This skunk was in shorts covered in his own feces.
So, I’m trying to maneuver him in a way as to not spread any more poo particles than necessary. My husband is tweeting about the whole ordeal while watching golf from the living room:
At this point John Michael is standing up and I’m trying to get a wipe in there. This kid. Sits. On my foot. With his nasty poo booty. And just giggles.
As I left I told my husband, good luck with the teen years.
Let’s just say I tipped extra on that pedicure.
I guess the moral is, sh*t happens.
Comments
Post a Comment