Sh*t Happens
As I'm waiting for my parents and grandparents to arrive, I thought I'd share this endearing little tale of what just happened to me about 15 minutes ago...
Jack loves playing in the backyard. Unfortunately, the dogs love pooping in the backyard. So every time I want to let Jack out to play, I first have to survey the backyard, pooper-scooper in hand, and find all the little treasures my dogs leave for me (which can be tricky when one of your dogs is a Chihuahua.)
So this morning, just before taking Jack out to play, I performed my daily poopie-hunt, and after I was certain I'd gotten every scrap of doo-doo, I went inside and grabbed Jack.
Now here's the part where the story gets cute: apparently in the time it took me to walk inside, put Jack's coat and shoes on, and then come back outside, Gracie decided it was time for a twosie.
Some friends of ours gave Jack a little scooter for his birthday last year, and I decided to let Jack take it outside. So there he was, scootin' around the yard, and I decided to dink around on my phone since the backyard is the only place on earth where Jack can't break something (except himself). Just then, I remember I forgot to add fabric softener, so I run inside, dump in the Downy, and then come back outside.
To unspeakable horror.
It seems that when I wasn't looking, Jack scooted through the surreptitious beagle dump, and when I went inside, put the scooter on the patio and was scooting around there.
There was dog poop all over my patio, my son's scooter, and my son.
Horrified, I snatched up my son, who began to scream like a banshee at the travesty of being removed not only from his beloved scooter, but the freedom of the outdoors. Unable to think of anything else to do, I plunked him into the kitchen sink and began ripping feces-riddled clothing items from him.
I grabbed one hand and proceeded to scrub off the top layer of dermis. Since he was still in an unholy rage against me for ruining his entire life, he reached out with his free (and still poop-covered) hand, and grabbed my sweater. Now I too, had crap on me. I wrenched his poop hand off of me and turned to shove it under the water, at which point he flailed like a dropped-puppet, lost his balance, and fell face-first into the kitchen faucet.
Now he's hurt, bleeding, and still covered in poo.
At this point, some weird maternal instinct kicked in, and I performed a maneuver that was half comfort-the-child and half wash-off-the-dookie.
Finally, when he was down to his diaper (still screaming) and I was satisfied that no micro-organism could have survived the the soapy assault I had dealt, I put him in his crib (still screaming) for an early nap.
And then I spend the next 45 minutes scrubbing the deck and scooter, and I am now in the process of doing 8 loads of laundry.
Merry Christmas, Everyone.
PS: I had no idea how many euphemisms there are in the English vernacular for "feces" until I wrote this blog.
Jack loves playing in the backyard. Unfortunately, the dogs love pooping in the backyard. So every time I want to let Jack out to play, I first have to survey the backyard, pooper-scooper in hand, and find all the little treasures my dogs leave for me (which can be tricky when one of your dogs is a Chihuahua.)
 |
| Similar to mine sweeping, only smellier and without the cool gadgets. |
So this morning, just before taking Jack out to play, I performed my daily poopie-hunt, and after I was certain I'd gotten every scrap of doo-doo, I went inside and grabbed Jack.
Now here's the part where the story gets cute: apparently in the time it took me to walk inside, put Jack's coat and shoes on, and then come back outside, Gracie decided it was time for a twosie.
Some friends of ours gave Jack a little scooter for his birthday last year, and I decided to let Jack take it outside. So there he was, scootin' around the yard, and I decided to dink around on my phone since the backyard is the only place on earth where Jack can't break something (except himself). Just then, I remember I forgot to add fabric softener, so I run inside, dump in the Downy, and then come back outside.
To unspeakable horror.
It seems that when I wasn't looking, Jack scooted through the surreptitious beagle dump, and when I went inside, put the scooter on the patio and was scooting around there.
There was dog poop all over my patio, my son's scooter, and my son.
Horrified, I snatched up my son, who began to scream like a banshee at the travesty of being removed not only from his beloved scooter, but the freedom of the outdoors. Unable to think of anything else to do, I plunked him into the kitchen sink and began ripping feces-riddled clothing items from him.
I grabbed one hand and proceeded to scrub off the top layer of dermis. Since he was still in an unholy rage against me for ruining his entire life, he reached out with his free (and still poop-covered) hand, and grabbed my sweater. Now I too, had crap on me. I wrenched his poop hand off of me and turned to shove it under the water, at which point he flailed like a dropped-puppet, lost his balance, and fell face-first into the kitchen faucet.
Now he's hurt, bleeding, and still covered in poo.
At this point, some weird maternal instinct kicked in, and I performed a maneuver that was half comfort-the-child and half wash-off-the-dookie.
Finally, when he was down to his diaper (still screaming) and I was satisfied that no micro-organism could have survived the the soapy assault I had dealt, I put him in his crib (still screaming) for an early nap.
And then I spend the next 45 minutes scrubbing the deck and scooter, and I am now in the process of doing 8 loads of laundry.
Merry Christmas, Everyone.
PS: I had no idea how many euphemisms there are in the English vernacular for "feces" until I wrote this blog.
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