I arrived home to the smell of steamy poop. The dining room smelled like it. The living reeked. Kristine had just left for work and I needed to make supper. I decided to breathe through my mouth and close my nose with my epiglottis. You become a master at that exercise as a dad of six kids. I'm as good at that as a woman doing kegels (in preparation for childbirth, of course).
We began training Analisse (2) to go to the bathroom on the potty a week or so ago. She forced our hand by ripping off her diaper and marching to the toilet, opening it, peeing, wiping herself, and then notified us of her victory by slamming the cover down so hard, it shook the house. I heard the noise and rushed into the bathroom, only to be greeted by a giggly little girl, so proud of her accomplishment, she was spewing out the words in perfect sentences:
She got candy.
But that was pee. She loved doing it. She hated diapers - unless she had to poop. Kristine sat with her a few days ago for a few hours, finally coaxing her to go one little turd. She kept hopping off and coming back, hopping off, and coming back. Finally, she succumbed and let out a little sheep ball of blackness. That was the last time.
I found the pork chops in the freezer and walked up the basement stairs. I could smell the fecal matter as I neared the top stair and went into denial mode, covering my nose again from the inside. I defrosted the meat and sliced potatoes, hoping beyond hope, grasping at the elusive possibility that Kristine had left a diaper on her from nap time. I convinced myself of this, even though Kristine had informed me on the second day of Analisse's potty training that she slept through nap time with underwear on.
I finished defrosting the chops, poured olive oil into the bottom of two glassware cake pans, covered them with salt and freshly ground pepper, shoved the pans in the oven at 350 degrees, and began to fry the potatoes.
Analisse ran past me giggling.
I laughed as she ran past me, momentarily forgetting that I was purposefully plugging my nose. I breathed in deeply - and choked on the rancid air. This was most definitely not a diaper issue. She had gone in her underwear. I knew it. But, I had one last glimmer of hope and, grasping at it, I yelled out to the living room:
Every good parent knows that you yell the names of all capable hands. Only one will really end up doing the task, but she'll pummel the other two and force them to help her. This way, if things go bad, they might, together, be able to get something done successfully, decreasing the chances that you'll need to pitch in and help where you would rather not.
I just wanted to cook supper!
The kids sprang to action, sitting up slightly in their resting positions in the living room.
Now they knew I meant business and slowly dragged themselves out to the kitchen, chased The Freak down and I listened carefully as they laid her down in the living room, preparing to change the diaper.
I busied myself with the frying, counting down the six seconds that it would take to discover underwear vs. a diaper. Sure enough:
My heart hit the floor.
I rushed into the living room, scooped Ani up in my arms, walked quickly to the bathroom with a bucket of wipes and laid her down on the bathroom rug. Her shirt and pants were fine as I peeled them off but I could see her underwear was a thick and slimy mass of soft squishy wonder. I took them off slowly, yelled for a garbage bag (threatening no supper if I didn't get it in seconds), got it delivered to me in record time, cleaned up her butt, kicked her out of the bathroom, happy and giggling, and then focused my attention on the underwear.
The poop was halfway between a hard ball and diarrhea. It covered the entire area of the back of her underwear. I rolled up a wad of toilet paper and tried valiantly to scrape the contents into the toilet.
The poop wouldn't budge.
I began to turn on the hot sink water, thinking I would wash it off, hoping the majority would melt away or evaporate into hot steam, hoping I wouldn't plug up the p-trap. The p-trap!
Turning around, I tossed the underwear in the garbage bag, tied it closed, washed my hands, and texted Kristine that we needed to buy more underwear. I returned to the kitchen and finished supper - arguably more flavorable at this point.
We began training Analisse (2) to go to the bathroom on the potty a week or so ago. She forced our hand by ripping off her diaper and marching to the toilet, opening it, peeing, wiping herself, and then notified us of her victory by slamming the cover down so hard, it shook the house. I heard the noise and rushed into the bathroom, only to be greeted by a giggly little girl, so proud of her accomplishment, she was spewing out the words in perfect sentences:
"I went peeeee!!!!"
She got candy.
But that was pee. She loved doing it. She hated diapers - unless she had to poop. Kristine sat with her a few days ago for a few hours, finally coaxing her to go one little turd. She kept hopping off and coming back, hopping off, and coming back. Finally, she succumbed and let out a little sheep ball of blackness. That was the last time.
I found the pork chops in the freezer and walked up the basement stairs. I could smell the fecal matter as I neared the top stair and went into denial mode, covering my nose again from the inside. I defrosted the meat and sliced potatoes, hoping beyond hope, grasping at the elusive possibility that Kristine had left a diaper on her from nap time. I convinced myself of this, even though Kristine had informed me on the second day of Analisse's potty training that she slept through nap time with underwear on.
I finished defrosting the chops, poured olive oil into the bottom of two glassware cake pans, covered them with salt and freshly ground pepper, shoved the pans in the oven at 350 degrees, and began to fry the potatoes.
Analisse ran past me giggling.
I laughed as she ran past me, momentarily forgetting that I was purposefully plugging my nose. I breathed in deeply - and choked on the rancid air. This was most definitely not a diaper issue. She had gone in her underwear. I knew it. But, I had one last glimmer of hope and, grasping at it, I yelled out to the living room:
"Renaya! Laura! Frederic! Change The Freak's diaper....NOW!!!"
Every good parent knows that you yell the names of all capable hands. Only one will really end up doing the task, but she'll pummel the other two and force them to help her. This way, if things go bad, they might, together, be able to get something done successfully, decreasing the chances that you'll need to pitch in and help where you would rather not.
I just wanted to cook supper!
The kids sprang to action, sitting up slightly in their resting positions in the living room.
"Now!! Dammit!!!"
Now they knew I meant business and slowly dragged themselves out to the kitchen, chased The Freak down and I listened carefully as they laid her down in the living room, preparing to change the diaper.
I busied myself with the frying, counting down the six seconds that it would take to discover underwear vs. a diaper. Sure enough:
"Ewww, Daddy! YUCK! Gross, Daddy! This is disgusting. Blecht! Oh, nasty!!!!!"
My heart hit the floor.
I rushed into the living room, scooped Ani up in my arms, walked quickly to the bathroom with a bucket of wipes and laid her down on the bathroom rug. Her shirt and pants were fine as I peeled them off but I could see her underwear was a thick and slimy mass of soft squishy wonder. I took them off slowly, yelled for a garbage bag (threatening no supper if I didn't get it in seconds), got it delivered to me in record time, cleaned up her butt, kicked her out of the bathroom, happy and giggling, and then focused my attention on the underwear.
The poop was halfway between a hard ball and diarrhea. It covered the entire area of the back of her underwear. I rolled up a wad of toilet paper and tried valiantly to scrape the contents into the toilet.
The poop wouldn't budge.
I began to turn on the hot sink water, thinking I would wash it off, hoping the majority would melt away or evaporate into hot steam, hoping I wouldn't plug up the p-trap. The p-trap!
Turning around, I tossed the underwear in the garbage bag, tied it closed, washed my hands, and texted Kristine that we needed to buy more underwear. I returned to the kitchen and finished supper - arguably more flavorable at this point.
I was 13 when my youngest sister was born. What I remember is all the nights of kids vomiting, the smell, the tiredness of my mom.
ReplyDeleteAlways use cold water for organics....after 6 kids that should be automatic.