Don’t laugh. Because if you’re reading this it’s because you have either experienced the turd in the tub or expect to experience the turd in the tub at some point in your life.
WARNING: Potty talk and poop discussion to follow…carry on…
I was giving A her bath last night, which is humourous in itself given my current size. Each night I wonder if she actually needs a bath, but yesterday morning I brushed dried yogurt out of her hair (to my credit, I didn’t know it was there to begin with) so I figured I should suck it up and bathe the child. During the course of the bath she started to fidget. She got squirmy (more so than usual) and started grabbing her, uh, we call them her girl parts around here. I asked her what was wrong, she said her bottom hurt. “Crap, I thought to myself, she’s got a UTI.” I’ve been accused of being slightly dramatic. So I asked her if she needed to go potty. She said no. I asked her if it hurt when she went potty, she said yes. “Damn, poor baby. I’ve had my fair share of UTI’s and they hurt. Guess I’ll call the doc in the morning.” Then all of a sudden she was fine. A few minutes later, she assumes one of her many (pooping) positions and starts grabbing herself again. Aha! Not a dreaded UTI, she has to poop! “Do you need to go poo-poo?” I ask her. She says no. I ask again, she says yes. I tell her NOT to go in the tub. Then I ask her if she wants to sit on the potty. Of course, she refuses. It doesn’t matter that she’s almost 3. She refuses to go near the potty. She actually demanded that I return the Minnie Mouse undies I bought her a few months ago. “You take them back to the store, Mommy!” she says to me. Doesn’t seem to matter that we’re already using the largest size Pampers makes. Eh, no biggie, I figure in a few years it will be a nice mother-daughter bonding experience to go shopping for our adult diapers together. That’ll teach her.
So I frantically start to make my way to my feet. No easy task these days. Let’s not forget the fact my legs and feet always fall asleep when I sit on the ground so I’m hobbling around while it feels like there’s a million ants crawling on my legs. At this point she’s begging for a diaper. I get her out of the tub, wrap her in a towel and then I see it. The dreaded turd in the tub. It wasn’t much, but let’s be honest, isn’t any size turd in the tub too much? “Gross!” I think to myself. I don’t want my delicate, fragile child to think I find her turds disgusting. Surely that will damage her psyche, right? I fish her numerous toys out of the water before they, too, become infected with turd germs. I make a beeline for her room and tell her get a move on…we’ve got to get her in a diaper…she’s not done yet. So there I stand in her room and there’s no A following me. I call to her. No answer. “Crap,” I think to myself (literally) “She’s going to poop all over the floor.” I pour Miralax down her like it’s going out of style. We’ve had “issues” since she was about 6 months old. This would have been no easy clean-up. So I hike it back to the bathroom (ok, fine, it’s only across the hall) only to find her half-naked in the bathroom curiously inspecting the towel that is now only covering half of her. The thoughts of her impending poop long gone. I pick her up, carry her to her room and quickly put a diaper on her. I keep a container of Clorox wipes in the bathroom, mainly to do a quick wipe-down of counters, toilets and floors while she’s in the tub. Last night I was very thankful for the Clorox wipes to clean up the tub. She never did finish, by the way. I pity the person who has to change that diaper. It will probably be me, but there’s also a good chance her preschool teacher may be the lucky recipient today.