It started with her trying to unsnap her pajamas. She wanted to be “nakie” but couldn’t quite figure out how to accomplish that. I told her if she took off her jammies, she had to put clothes on instead. She said, “Okay,” so I helped her get undressed.
Of course she immediately tore off her diaper and ran, giggling and naked as the day she was born, down the hall.
I wasn’t too concerned. In nearly two years, I can count on one hand the number of “accidents” she’s had. Of course, one of those accidents occurred just the other night when David was trying to dress her after her bath and she peed on the living room floor, but other than that she’s been pretty good about holding it until she’s got pants on. So rather than chase her down right away, I took my time gathering a clean diaper and some clothes for her to wear for the day.
And then I heard a whimper. It quickly turned into a cry. An extremely pitiful cry. One I’d never heard from her before. And that cry kept growing until I finally found her in my bathroom.
…where I discovered, to my horror, that she had pooped a mighty poop, and that most of that mighty poop had been tracked all over the floor by the toilet, and what wasn’t on the floor was plastered all over the lower half of her body.
At that moment I think I died a little inside, and also screamed a tiny bit, and definitely had to fight the urge to vomit.
Evidently she had realized she needed to go, and went into the bathroom where the big people go potty, but wasn’t sure what to do from there, and ready or not, the poop was coming out. And then there it was, all over the floor. And she stepped in it. And kept stepping in it. And the more she stepped in it, the more distraught she became. By the time I got there, she was hysterical. Had I found myself naked and unable to control my bowels and then suddenly covered in my own excrement and unsure of how to deal with the situation…well, heaven help me if I ever find myself in that situation, but I’m sure I’d be just as traumatized.
I gingerly picked her up and set her in the sink, where I miraculously managed to get her cleaned up without getting anything unsavory on myself. Then I carried her to the living room, held her until she stopped crying, and got her dressed. (She was extremely relieved to have clothes on again.) Once she seemed okay, I trudged off to clean up the rest of the mess.
By the way, have I mentioned that I’m pregnant? And that when I am pregnant, my gag reflex is awfully strong? And that people smells–like body odor and, oh I don’t know, feces–set off that gag reflex more than anything else? And that my bathroom is not well-ventilated? Yeeeeah. Wiping up her poosplosion was a really good time.
After everything gross had been disposed of and disinfected, I emerged from the bathroom, bottle of bleach in hand, only to find the guilty party happily dismantling my rotary cutter.
And then she sliced herself open and bled to death because I refused to take her to the emergency room because I was still mad about all the poop.
I freaked out–again–and took it away from her, razor blade and all, and gave her a repetitive scolding about sharp and danger and no no no. She ran off. I put away the rotary cuter and the bleach I still had in hand, then reluctantly went to look for her again. I found her very contritely looking at her puzzles. Thank goodness.
And then I called my mom to tell her what happened because it was either that or eat the pint of frozen custard in the freezer and wallow in self-pity, and let’s face it: self-pity is no fun and with all the cake in my life these days I really don’t need to be eating custard at nine in the morning.