Trial By "Fire"
Warning: This post may not be safe for non-parents, pregnant women, or those with weak stomachs. EclecticMamma is not responsible for any loss of lunch, appetite, or desire to procreate. No, I'm not kidding; I had to suppress my gag reflex while I was typing.
We always knew this day would come. I did, anyways. The day that we would pass one of the major tests for acceptance into the Toddler Parenting Society… Unfortunately (or fortunately?) for you, I don't have any pictures of the blessed event, and I am trying to block out the memories…
It all started one blissful Sunday afternoon. Husband and Monkey were both borderline sick, and so spent most of the day in the recliner and whining, respectively. The whining had finally reached naptime caliber, so we decided to put Monkey down for a late-morning nap.
Late morning turned into early and then mid-afternoon, and we congratulated ourselves for having a child that napped so well. I even had the baby monitor and never heard a peep, though when I checked the screen around 2:45 I saw that Monkey was playing very quietly with his lamb or blanket or something. "It's so nice," Husband commented, "that Monkey wakes up and plays quietly, instead of crying right away." I nodded in agreement.
Fifteen to twenty minutes later, I expressed concern that Monkey must be getting hungry, as he didn't eat much for breakfast and had been in his crib a long time. We agreed that I would fetch the child while Husband changed the litterbox.
The moment I opened the nursery door, I smelled poo. "Ooh, did you make a poopy?" I asked Monkey.
He looked up at me and said "Poop! Poop!"
My mind was slow to take in the situation. First, I noticed that his pajamas were unzipped. Oops, I hope he didn't pee on anything again. Then, I noticed that his hands were down by his diaper. Oohh… His pajamas were covered in brown patches. Noo… His sheet was smeared with brown. Oh no… His lamb was speckled liberally with the stuff. But he… The last thing I noticed was the smearage on his face. Above his eyes. Around his mouth. Mixed with snot and drool. ERROR: SANITY NOT FOUND.
It was at the point that I called insistently for Husband to help. I stared at both the child and the mess, trying to figure out how to get him into the bathtub with minimal casualties until I got so light-headed I had to turn around and close my eyes. (In order to get to the bathroom from Monkey's room, you have to walk the length of the basement, up the stairs, and then walk the length of the house twice. This will be fun when we start potty training.)
We agreed that I would take care of the child and Husband would take care of the crib bedding, crib, and wall. I started the bath and grabbed one of our junk towels to wrap the boy in.
Two baths (for him), one shower (for me—he kept splashing me), and two loads of laundry later… We were almost normal again.
A side note: Wouldn't you think that after such mischief, a child should be evolutionarily hardwired to be sweet and adorable—if only to prevent being thrown out to the wolves or mastodons or whatnot? Not so—Monkey was ornery as ever all afternoon. I suspect he didn't actually sleep too much, considering some of his "art" had dried onto his forehead and the crib, and required considerable scrubbing.