I have mentioned a few times before that there is a real reason that “Cooper” rhymes with “pooper.”
The sweetest little guy ever, and yet he manages to fill his diaper four or five times a day with what stinketh. And twice now he’s managed to poop on the white carpet in my bedroom in the 90 seconds between being dried off after his bath and being swathed in the safety of his Pampers.
So tonight he finally did it. He pooped in the tub. Not a couple of floaters, or a few dainty nuggets, no. It was a mess. And I had filled the tub tonight with so many bubbles, who knows how long it was in there. It wasn’t until the white froth began to dissipate that I noticed how oddly brown the water was.
“Get out of the tub! NOW!” I screeched to Kenny, who hopped up, still unawares, but startled by my no-nonsense tone. I grabbed Cooper out, too, then made them stand on the bath mat, dripping and freezing cold while I drained the tub and maniacally disinfected it.
It. Was. So. Gross. Oh my oh my oh my… YUK! I sit shivering at the memory.
I filled the tub again with water as warm as they could stand it, and scrubbed every last crevice of their defiled little bodies until I decided that they were clean enough to hug me again.
Thank goodness Kenny thought it was kind-of funny. He’s three, and poop is still a form of entertainment, as he yet lacks the fuller understanding of what poop is and what it’s made of. Cooper was mad at being taken so abruptly out of the tub, but instantly jazzed at the opportunity to get in again. They have both already forgotten the experience, but I am still so grossed out.
Fortunately, it was one of those days that went so well otherwise, I am able to look at it now (after a really big glass of wine and a bowl of chocolate ice cream) as par for the course in the life of a Mommy. As Jennifer Nettles would say,
“Sh! It happens…”