Friday, July 30, 2010

Oh, Poop.

I had the Morning From Hell today. And it started out so well. That's always when your day can crash the hardest - when it starts out well. Really, where else is there for it to go but down?

I got up early (for once!), I had time to shower, eat a breakfast (!!!), style my hair, put on makeup, wash the bottles I had neglected last night. I ironed my work pants, which I almost never do. I even got bored enough to put on the shirt that I planned to wear. But I put on pj bottoms instead of my freshly pressed pants. After all, I'm not a madwoman. I know what can go wrong with work clothes if you have small children to deal with.

After all this? The girls were still sleeping. I was going to have to wake them up if we were going to leave the house on time. People? Waking up your children? It never bodes well. Never.

I got Sosie up, changed her, dressed her, fed her, burped her. I woke Scarlett up. She stumbled through going potty in her groggy, punch-drunk way. She needs time to fully wake up, much like myself. While I was supervising Scarlett's pottying? Sosie made a dirty diaper. For the past few days she has gotten into an annoying schedule of pooping right before we have to leave, which means I have to stop everything and change her, and leave later than I hoped to. Ugh.

I decided since no poop appeared to be spilling out of her diaper, she could wait until Scarlett was all finished and wiped and clean-hands...ded. After a few minutes, though, Sosie grew pretty heavy in my arms and she started to slide down. I had to pull her back up to a more comfortable grip. All that maneuvering was making me nervous for her diaper, most likely precariously full. I decided to go change her after all, and leave Scarlett to her own devices.

When I laid Sosie down to change her? There was big green smear of poop up the front of her onesie. So that meant... I looked down. Yep. An identical smear. On me. On the shirt I was planning to wear today. Sigh.

I strip her, change her. It requires a lot of baby wipes. Pretty soon after I start? I realize that I have to go to the bathroom now. Like, desperately have to. Now.

But I have way more Sosie-wiping to do. I can't leave her in a mess, or without a new diaper, or she'll pee all over the floor, or worse. But if I don't get to the bathroom in T-minus-five seconds? I might pee all over the floor. Or worse.

I manage to rush through getting her into a fresh diaper just fast enough that I make it to the bathroom. Then, Scarlett, sensing vulnerability the way only a toddler can, bursts into the bathroom to see what Mommy is up to. She is up in my face, asking me questions and trying to sneak a peek at my lady business to see what I'm doing on the potty. I have a rather hostile conversation with her about how people like privacy in the bathroom. Of course, she has no idea what privacy is. Because I have none. So I have to explain that to her, too. Sigh.

The rest of the morning? Occurs in a complete shambles. Once you've had a poop-smear situation? It is way hard to reclaim your day. Sigh.

Since we are talking about poop anyway? I have another story for you. All fresh!

The other night, Michael and I are sitting on the couches. I have Sosie, I think I have just fed her, and now she is happily sitting in my lap. Scarlett is off playing. A happy family tableau.

I notice Sosie is pooping. I am all smiles. Sometimes she worries me, makes me wonder if she might be constipated and cranky. When she poops? That means she will sleep great. All smiles.

All of a sudden? I notice that her diaper is not containing this awesome bowel effort. Not at all. There is baby poop making a trail from her diaper, down my pants, and onto the couch. Lovely.

I start laughing and going, "Uhhh... babe?" Michael notices what is happening. Michael cannot abide the thought of bodily fluids of any kind. He makes horrified, revolted faces and leaves the room. I'm all, "Hey! I need some help here!" I can't move for fear of spreading the stuff everywhere.

Michael's all, "I know!" and reappears to toss me a towel.

I have to clean it up, but the towel is not really... containing the mess. Then there's Michael, helpfully pointing out that the poop is the exact same color as my shirt. Suddenly he is obsessed with getting a picture of this weird natural phenomenon. He flashes away with the camera on his phone. I'm like, "You are not publishing those."

Finally I am able to get up and take Sosie to the bathroom, for a bath. While I am in there? I am burst in upon, with children hoping to sneak a peek at whether there is still poop all over both of us. I may or may not scream something about going to your room, minding your own business, and shutting the damn door.

Sheesh. When did pooping become such a spectator sport? And please, god... when will it end?