Houston...We've Got a Floater.

When you have small children, much of your life revolves around firsts. First word. First step. First “I love you.” Well, we had a first the other night that I hadn’t really had on my list of kiddie milestones.

My beautiful baby boy. Almost two. Adorably (and loudly) playing with his bath toys with his wet hair matted down on his forehead. "Aaaaaaah! Joooooh!” he screamed, dumping a cup of water over his head. Squeals of delight and laughter ricocheted off the tiles. I giggled along with him, kissed him, and went to grab a clean towel. All of the sudden, quiet. I peeked my head back in and saw him clutching the side of the tub, staring at me with a blank expression on his face.

“Honey, ready to get out?” I asked.

“No. No Mama.”

“No?”

“No, Mama,” he responded, shaking his head vigorously.

Wait a second. My brow furrowed. Wait a gosh darn second here. That “No, Mama” wasn’t your average “No, Mama.” Not a “No, Mama” he lobs my way when he doesn’t want to do something I’ve asked him to do or doesn’t want to stop doing something I’ve asked him to stop doing. This “No, Mama” had an all-too-familiar leave-me-alone-I-need-privacy shaky tone to it.

Still. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t. He would never.

Or would he?

I squinted, looking into the tub. And, suddenly...the horror. The unspeakable, unfathomable horror. Holy shit. I mean, literally, holy shit.

Two small turds stared back at me as they happily bubbled to the surface of the tub water. I screamed. Grabbing J quickly out of the tub, I froze, not quite knowing what to do about Dooce and Dooceling.

“What, what happened?” T yelled from downstairs. “Everything ok?” I heard his feet bounding up the stairs. He appeared at the doorway to the bathroom just as the scene turned from ugly to macabre. Jack looked into my eyes one last time, his face turning beet red. And, before any of us could even wrap our brains around the two initial brown trouts (or in this case brown goldfish) swimming around the tub, there it was: The Log.

“EEEEEEEW! GRRRRROSSSS!” yelled The Chorus, otherwise known as our 4-year-old. “EEEEEW. JACKY POOPED ON THE FLOOR!”

“Oh, Christ,” T groaned.

“Oh. My. God.” I whispered.

“Ew. Poopy. Ew. Ew. Ew,” said the culprit, looking around at all of us as if the shit banana on the floor came out of someone else’s ass and not his.

It only took a minute for us to divide and conquer. I took J, still shaking his head as if he was an innocent bystander, to his room to clean him up. And, ladies and gentleman, I’d like to take this moment to personally thank my husband for strapping on his hazmat suit and jumping in as First in Command for Operation Turd Removal. Not only did the task at hand involve flushing, but also disinfecting. And more disinfecting. Not easy. Or fun.

And for those of you puking in your mouths as a result of this story, I apologize. Ok, not really. Come on people. You can’t have a mommy blog and not talk shit.