I think my children just set a world record for number of dumps taken in one day (yes, I am going there). That means I spent a good portion of yesterday as a human ping pong between one small ass and another even smaller ass.
They weren't Big D dumps, thank God. And, they weren't particularly hair-raising in smell or texture. It was the number and sheer volume that had me crying out on more than one occasion, "HOLY Shit!" (pun absolutely intended).
When oh when did my life go to poop...literally? Any parent knows that it all starts in infancy. You are told to keep track of your baby's, um, stool -- color, texture, consistency, quantity. Hospitals actually send you home with a chart like it's a homework assignment that will be graded. I never knew my triumphs and downfalls as a new mom would rely so heavily on how often my baby's ass exploded.
On a side note, I'd like to request these charts be reconfigured to become multiple-choice. Leaving answers open-ended just invites more poop paranoia and particularly for first-time mommies, this obsession with defecating can quickly spiral out of control. (Is that green or brown or greenish-brown or brownish-green or beige?)
Anyhow, back to yesterday...So, I'm on Dump #65 for the day. I'm changing Smaller Ass in the playroom. He hates to have his diaper changed, which now that he is bigger and stronger, has become not just a chore, but a physical feat akin to running a marathon. So, there I am wrestling, um, I mean, changing him. I've tried giving him all manner of objects to play with while I perform the task at hand. Ball -- thrown across the room; play phone -- tossed over head; miniature horse figure -- in mouth for a second and then tossed to the side. F' this. "Part of my job as your mother is to make sure you don't marinate in your own feces," I say to him as I pin him down.
He wrenches so violently away from my grip that his open diaper, which I have not even had a chance to completely remove from his bottom, goes airborne. When I say turds went a-flying, I mean, turds caught wind and actually FLEW across the room. My mouth open, I watch as Smaller Ass starts to crawl away. My mind races. I crawl after him with a wipey and roll my eyes as he squeals with glee. I grab one of Smaller Ass's legs and reach out to wipe. He's still on all fours for the wipe. Got it. Now the turds. There's only three of them and despite their surprise flight and landing, they have remained intact. I quickly scoop them up and roll them in the diaper. I go to get the rug cleaner to disinfect the poop landing strips -- not visible to the naked eye, but gross nonetheless.
As I'm wiping the carpet, a high-pitched, extremely loud sound comes from the hall bathroom. Oh no. It's Small Ass. "I need a double wipe!"
For those of you not familiar with the Vollmerhausen Double Wipe, it's an 'ism that we invented for our older child who can be trusted to get on the toilet, do her business, and even clean herself when it's #1. But, doing #2 is a little trickier. So we back up her efforts with the anti-skid Double Wipe, which can be performed by a parent, grandparent or babysitter. If Travis is home, he is THE double wiper, but alas, when I am home alone with the kids such responsibilities fall squarely on my shoulders.
"Coming!" I yell. I somehow, some way get a diaper on Smaller Ass and make sure he is ensconced in the play room. I go to attend to the other one. She is standing next to her creation in the toilet when I enter the bathroom. Pants around her ankles, she glances over at the toilet as if it say, "Go ahead, take a peek." So, of course, I do.
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY!
"Looks like a snake, doesn't it," she says matter-of-factly. And, it does.
After the shock and alarm of seeing what my daughter's bowels are capable of, I go to work.
We wash our hands and get ready for lunch. I open up the freezer to get the frozen edamame out and see another box next to them. "I want one of the chocolate bananas after lunch, Mommy!" Marley cries.
I start laughing hysterically and don't stop for a good 10 minutes.
This post is dedicated with love to R & KB, who are the only other women I know who get into poop humor as much as I do.
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