Picture this: Tuscaloosa, Alabama circa 2014.
It had been a long Friday at work, the kind that had me stay most of the day focused on a single task because any mess ups meant heads would roll (specifically mine) come Monday if even a sheet tab was out of place. A small glance at the clock left me wide-eyed at the realization that I only had 30 minutes left to finish up the rest of my untouched to-do list. However it was inevitable, I scrounged every bit of work I knew I could do from the comfort of my couch and hit the door, because there was a more pressing task that could not be delayed: pickup time.
After fighting the traffic to daycare and fighting traffic home I hit the drive thru at the Arby’s by my house, knowing my commitments this evening would leave little else but a fast food spread for dinner: mom of the year y’all! Before motherhood you might think that there are places ketchup has no business being in, but leave it to a one-year-old to push the boundaries of reality. Annabelle looked like she’d just left a cage fight and won, so bath time was a must. I plopped her down in a warm bath and let her enjoy her toys as I sat on the toilet and used it for something it was never intended for: a desk. I read over papers and made notes as Annabelle splashed around, blissfully unaware of the impending doom that is bedtime.
It was at about page three of my notes that I heard it, the sound that all parents of small children know, the low grunting of a child with one in the chamber about to pull the trigger. At this point time slowed down as I glanced over to see my delicate, petite flower of a child turn red-faced, her brow furrowed in concentration, and almost as instantly she relaxed that cute little face. I watched in mild disbelief as the SS Shitbrick emerged from the depths of the soapy water with an almost buoyancy behind my little angel: we had a floater!
And for whatever reason, be it the sheer magnitude and size of the brown titanic my child had birthed or the utter disbelief that this was real life, I sat there for a second, staring with a mixture of horror and admitted misplaced pride. It was in that second that my daughter, my first born, the one who for some god awful reason that now escapes me, gave me a desire to have another one, reached out her pudgy little hand and grasped hold of her creation.
Work papers went flying as I scrambled the small distance to the tub, my mouth forming the words “NOOOOOOO” as a grabbed her arm with one hand, using the other to pick her up from her own self-made poop soup. She was like a dog with a bone. It took a few good but gentle/frantic shakes before she released her coveted prize with a sickening splash back into the tub. All the while I’m screaming for my husband “Get in here! We have a situation!” My husband rounded the corner with a speed I never knew he had and was met with a horrified wife holding a dripping toddler with an outstretched, brown hand.
For those who are curious, the proper way to clean up poop in the bathtub goes as followed:
Step One: Remove as much of the solid waste as you can by hand, preferably with a glove but let’s face it, if you have a child you have likely already gotten poop all over your hand, arm, clothes, etc. Now is not the time to feign a delicate sensibility, just get that shit out of there.
Step Two: Conveniently you will likely find a toilet close by your bathtub. Utilize it and flush that king-sized candy bar of a monstrosity down the john.
Step Three: Drain the tub and use a hot shower spray or cup to splash away any excess, for lack of a better word, poo particles. It may become necessary to smush some down the drain (insert dry heave).
Step Four: Bleach the shit out of your tub…literally! Be sure to rinse well after.
During this time someone should be cleaning the little mess maker in another bath or kitchen sink. In the name of fairness I suggest you Rock, Paper, Scissors for it.
After the arduous task of deep cleaning both my tub and my baby I gave up all pretenses for making more progress on my work, gathering the water-soaked papers from the ground and promising myself to look at them again tomorrow. Surprisingly Annabelle was easy to put down that night, it was like she had no more shits to give (pun totally intended) and went down without a fight. I decided on a much needed and deserved break, so I went to the kitchen, poured myself a bottle of wine (yes you read that right, a bottle. I have a glass that will fit an entire basic sized bottle of wine, it was a Christmas gift, don’t judge me) and grabbed my favorite treat from the freezer: a frozen Snickers. I plopped down on my couch and began scrolling through the TV guide looking for something to help me wind down and recover from my traumatic experience. I smiled as I came across a movie almost too perfect for words, as if by divine intervention. I hit play and settled back, sipping my glass and taking a bite of my frozen treat as the opening credits and song began: “I’m alright” – Caddyshack.
