Dinner was going as fabulous as usual. Our very own little drummer boy was simultaneously twitching every extremity while eating AND talking nonstop about who-knows-what. The little one was enjoying her food, which translates to smushing it up her nose and across the top of her head. Twitchy-boy and food-hair-girl were doing their parts to keep dinner entertaining, while lovely hubby and I were just trying to get the food down between laughing fits and rounds of banging our heads against the table.
All was well.
Then came the traditional you-take-her-up-for-bath while I-put-food-away-and-clean-up-the-kitchen routine. I was just at the point where most of the leftovers were safely stowed away for later enjoyment when I was summoned with a "Can you come up here?" Not an emergency voice, so I didn't break into a run (ha ha ha- run!), but it was soon followed by a "Can you come as quickly as possible?" As I rounded the corner and poked my head into the bathroom where the little one was supposedly enjoying her bath, I was greeted by a child on the brink of losing it. She then breaks into a terrible cry, while lovely husband breaks out laughing and I see why.
Floating turds.
Yup, in my seven years of official parenthood, I've never encountered this before, but my dear little daughter decided that the best time to have a bowel movement was when she was submerged in water and surrounded by tub toys.
At this point, I'm not sure if H has realized that she is in an absolutely disgusting situation or our laughing has scared the crap out of her (could I resist, I mean really??), but I realize the task of getting the poops out of the tub is obviously going to fall on my shoulders. So, S gets down to comfort H, and I do the only thing I can think of- I begin to pick up the floaters and put them in the toilet. This is met with a cry of outrage from lovely husband, but what else am I going to do? Go all the way downstairs, rifle through the under-the-sink-cabinet to try to find some cleaning gloves, only to have to waddle back up the stairs, all while she continues to scream her bloody head off? No, I'm just going to tackle the problem head on. So, I become the human pooper scooper.
Once the poops are all out, we work as a team to wash her, hose her down and try to get her to stop wailing. Soon enough, she's clean, she's out and she's ready to move on to her oh-so-beloved toothbrushing routine. (It sure is a sight- her unsteadily balancing on my knee while I wrestle a toothbrush into her mouth and she kicks at her unborn little brother. Fun, fun.) We're back on track for a regular evening.
At the end of the ordeal, I just couldn't help myself, but I had to call my mom. "Mom, I have a question for you. A question that in no way could you have imagined when you woke up this morning that you'd be requested to answer today. Here goes- did I ever poop in a bath when I was a baby?" That's always a great opener for a long-distance phone call, right? Apparently, I have never done this particular joyful act and neither has my sister, although my mom's official answer was, "Not that I can remember." Not that you can remember?! I don't think I'm going to be forgetting this one too soon. Maybe 30 years down the road it'll be a little gray, but something tells me that fishing for my offspring's excrement among tubby-baby, captain guy and several toy boats is not a memory I'm going to lose completely. Ever. Oh, what a night.
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