It’s my birthday week! I didn’t write anything new for today as a little gift to myself, but have no fear good readers, I’ve got you covered!
Below is a little story I wrote seven years ago when my first child was just 1 1/2 years old. It is 100% true, and yes, I can laugh about it now.
At the time, I posted it on social media for my friends and family to read, because “better laugh than cry.” Since then it has become a favourite re-share every couple of years.
Sit back and enjoy this little slice of my life.
It’s Three O’clock.
I’m cleaning up a mess in the living room where my son has dumped out a whole bag of Teddy Grahams, when all of a sudden, I see a Smurf running towards me with outstretched arms.
Except it’s not a Smurf.
It’s my son, with blue food colouring on his face and his hands, and streaked across his chest.
I did the only thing a sane mother would do…
I screeched and ran around in a circle to avoid him while whipping off my shirt.
(It was a really nice shirt… a really nice WHITE shirt.)
Now, wearing only my less-really-nice camisole, I allow myself to be chased into the kitchen where I view the damage. My kid is gaining on me. I have one second to make a decision.
The kitchen cupboard looks bad, but the possibility of blue hand prints around the house is worse.
I scoop up my son, holding him at fully extended arm’s length and make my way to the bathroom where I turn on the water with my foot, and begin to strip him all the while saying, “Please don’t touch that, please don’t touch that, please don’t touch THAT!”
As I strip him off, I discover that his diaper is full.
This is not our usual changing spot and there are no wipes.
I dash next door and return with wipes hoping in the 1.5 seconds I was gone, that no poop has been smeared.
I hoped in vain.
I wipe his butt and plop him in the tub.
As he giggles and finger paints the tub blue, I scrub poo.
With poo scrubbed, I turn my attention to kid-scrubbing.
I scrub blue off his face.
I scrub blue off off his feet.
I scrub blue off his chest.
I scrub blue off his hands.
I scrub blue off the tub where it has turned blue.
Then the bathwater starts to bubble.
My son has pooped in the tub.
Apparently he wasn’t finished.
I whisk him up and turn on the shower with my foot.
He’s squirming and flailing too much to hold up, so I put one foot on the far edge of the tub, lie him over my knee, and spray his bottom.
He does not like having his bottom sprayed.
My jeans are now soaked, but my kid is clean.
I set him down on the bath mat and try to towel him dry.
He’s still angry, screaming, and flailing…
He tears the towel from my hands and drops it in the poo water.
I reach for another towel.
There isn’t one.
It’s laundry day.
“Oh, why the heck not.” I mutter.
I strip off my camisole, wrap my flailing kid in it, and march—now only in my bra—to his room.
Before I can get him dressed, he pees on the floor.
I get him into a diaper and t-shirt and call it good enough.
I plop my son on the couch and put on some VeggieTales.
God Bless VeggieTales.
I return to the bedroom and clean pee off the floor.
I return to the bathroom and clean poo out of the tub.
I return to the kitchen and start scrubbing blue food colouring.
It’s Four O’clock.
My husband emerges from the bedroom.
He has been fast asleep this whole time.
(Night shifts have set all three of us on different sleep schedules. Yay.)
He walks past our son watching TV in a shirt and no pants.
He walks past me scrubbing the cupboard in wet jeans and no shirt.
He opens the pantry.
“Hey, what happened to all the Teddy Grahams?”
Got any “better laugh than cry” kid stories? I want to hear them below!
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