It was teething- round ‘I lost track’ because the boy was always teething. And that usually came with a whole host of lovely things, to include wicked diaper rash. His butt was so red and I hurt for him with each wave of a wipe. He had just pulled #1 AND #2 duties and I was changing him while feeling horrible for his sudden misfortune. And I thought ‘ Why not channel your inner hippie and let him go diaperless awhile? He’s all cleaned out and the air would probably do that rash some good.’ Enter mistake numero uno.
By this time, he was already running everywhere, so I let him loose to play. All the while thinking I’m such a good mom! I’m so cool. I’m like a hippie earth mother who bathes.
Anywho- hubs called me into the computer room. I had just checked on little ninja, who was happily playing in a box of q-tips in the master bathroom. Don’t judge- I know he could jab out his eyes or pierce his eardrums or cut open his chest cavity, but he really IS a good boy. and not that crazy. So off I went. Not five minutes later, it was eerily quiet in the house. Hubby immediately assumed Caleb was into something and went to investigate. I promptly rolled my eyes at his paranoia. Weren’t you paying attention? I had just checked on him.
And then I heard it. A sound I had never heard before. It was coming from the bathroom, and it sounded as if the only other adult in the house was in great peril. I rushed into the room to hubby repeating ‘That’s so foul,’ while holding Caleb away from him and turning his head toward me. Now let’s just stop right here for a minute, shall we? Normally, that simple phrase wouldn’t bring me to maniac fits of laughter. But here’s the deal. My dear, sweet husband is a southerner. So the word ‘foul’ actually comes out more like ‘faaaaaaaaaal’. And that on repeat is pretty darn funny. Especially when it’s only interrupted by random acts of gagging, and maybe even a little dry heaving. I don’t know. The truth is that I was too busy laughing.
Because it was poop…and a box of q-tips. All mixed together like some disturbing form of modern art. It was all over my white rug, the floor, squished between the chubby knuckles of my son, AND inside the q-tip box.
How can one little body possibly create this much destruction? Oh well, the proof is in the poo…isn’t that what ‘they’ say?