poop

Ever walk in on your son holding his own poop?

I did. Just a little while ago. Yeah, the same son who painted our flat screen last summer with the contents of his PullUp.

Can someone do me a favor and explain this fascination with one’s own poop? Coz I’ve NEVER, and I mean NEVER, been afflicted with this particular anomaly.

I just caught Josh holding poop in his hands. That’s right, ladies and gentleman. In his hands. (I really thought we were over this.)

So I asked him where he got the poop. He shrugs. Fine. I’m not a complete idiot. I know where it comes from. So I tell the boy to drop it into the toilet and wash his hands. For 5 minutes while I clean up. As he’s getting his hands wet, I notice that his hoodie will get wet if it stays where it is, so I take it off and fling it across the room toward the laundry room.

But lo and behold. What new evil is this?!!

Poop has just showered down on us. oh yes. That just happened.

“Why is there poop on my floor?!” I have now lost the capacity to think clearly, and I have to ask what just happened.

Josh is just frozen. Naked. And obviously afraid of the scary lady who is twitching to contain the frustration that is spreading through her like a plague. He’s not talking.

“JOSH! Where did all this poop come from?”

He points to his jacket and whispers, “you threw it on the floor, mom.”

Finally, I get it. “Where in your jacket did you put the poop, Josh?” I’m now extremely concerned that I have to go through all the pockets of every article of clothing in his room and that laundry time is about to get much, much riskier.

“hoodie.” Comes the small voice.

“Why was poop in your hoodie?!” Shrug. “How did poop get into your hoodie?” Shrug.

“Ok, ok, ok. How did poop get into your hands to get into your hoodie? Did you pull it out of the toilet? That toilet? The one that Gillian, who has a bit of the stomach flu, just used and forgot to flush? DID YOU STICK YOUR HAND IN THAT?!”

“no.”

“Then how did poop get into your hands?”

“i pooped in them.”

At this point, I am speechless. And that doesn’t happen often.

“ok, to clarify. You pooped into your own hands. Were just playing with some of it in your hands. And had saved some for later in the hood of your hoodie? Have we covered this or is there MORE?”

“that’s it.”

Don’t you stop washing your hands! And when you’re done, you’re going to take a shower. And I’m going to scrub this toilet. And the floors. And the counters. And the walls. And do another load of laundry. And I just may have to use a Brillo Pad on your hands because now I can’t help but remember all those times recently that you came up to me and placed my face in your tiny little hands and told me how much you loved me, and I’m kinda freaking out a little bit. That's it. I’m getting in the shower with you. But we’re using SEPARATE Brillo Pads.

Today is the day that I survived this. And my son still feels loved. And the world didn’t come to an end. And I didn’t run for the hills.

AND now I can enjoy this delicious vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup. Because there’s no point in avoiding that yummy box in the freezer when you’ve had a day like this. yeah. The whole box.