Yesterday Sophie and I were having a great afternoon, which involved me breaking my high score at Wii bowling (208 baby!!) and her sitting at the dining room table watching me bowl while eating a nutritious lunch of grapes and chicken nuggets. What could be better?
I was getting my bowling groove on when all of a sudden Sophie began to fuss. “Need help! Need HELP!” she cried frantically. I turned to look at her and she had her hand extended toward me, covered in peanut butter. Neither of my kids like it when their hands get messy while they’re eating so I am used to having to wipe her hands before she can finish her meal. But as I walked toward her to grab a napkin, I realized: She’s not eating peanut butter. That can’t be peanut butter.
I took hold of her wrist and got a whiff and panicked. THAT’S NOT PEANUT BUTTER!
It was poop.
She had a chicken nugget in one hand, and a bunch of poop in the other.
I immediately did what I could with a napkin, then began jumping around screaming “NO touch! No touch!” while frantically trying to locate the wipes and wrestle the Wii controller that was strapped to me off of my arm. (I am very good in a panic situation. {Sarcasm sign!})
I found the wipes, got her hand cleaned up, washed it in soap and scalding water (just kidding, it was just really warm), managed not to VOMIT, and then went about changing her diaper. I quickly discovered that she’d had a bit of a blowout, and feeling poop on her lower back, had reached back to find out what the heck was going on back there. And found out. Eeeeeww.
I made it almost six years as a mother without having a kid stick his or her hand in their own poo, I guess that is pretty good. But YUCK. It was disgusting.
And it is time for Camp Potty to begin TODAY!
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