Let me start by saying that today was a very difficult day for me for reasons I can't entirely discern. I am frustrated/angry/upset/defeated/<insert super-unpleasant emotion here>. It's just been that kind of day. I'm pretty sure I was one of those road rage drivers that I hate on the way home. And it's really difficult to fix a horrible day when you have no idea exactly why it's so horrible to begin with (depression sucks like that). Add to that the fact that my divorce lawyer is being a huge pain in my ass and is trying to throw me under the bus with my husband to cover her own ass, and I was ready to climb in bed the minute I got home. But no, that would be WAY too easy, and easy just isn't something we do around here. No, sir.
So anyway, shortly after getting home, my four year-old - my COMPLETELY potty trained four year-old - called me over to the bathroom for "help." Ugh. This won't end well - I already know this. So I walk into the bathroom and what do I see? My son standing in a puddle of pee with a fully-loaded pair of underwear. Oh well. This is what moms get paid the big bucks to deal with, right? Yeah, I didn't think so. If I were a smart person, I probably would have cut the underwear off of him and taken the loss. But, as it turns out, I am not a smart person. As such, I tried to remove a fully-loaded pair of underwear from a wiggly pre-schooler the old fashioned way. I'm sure you can imagine that didn't go so well for me. It was a poop-splosion. Poop everywhere. All down his legs, and because I'm super coordinated, I somehow managed to miss while trying to dump the poop out of the underwear. So now I've got poop all over the toilet seat, poop all over the floor and poop all over my child...the only thing not covered in poop was the inside of the toilet bowl. There I was, left to clean the trifecta of poopiness - because I'm super lucky like that.
I finally got his clothes off of him and ran to throw them into the washing machine. I gave him strict instructions to NOT MOVE. I swear the washing machine is maybe ten feet from the bathroom, but naturally in the three seconds it took me to throw everything in the wash and turn around, he had completely forgotten my instructions. And who could blame him, really? I mean, "don't move!" and "bust a move!" do sound pretty similar. I turned to find him dancing around the bathroom. I mean, he was gettin' down with his bad self. I managed to crack a smile until I saw it...
This is what the floor of the bathroom looked like. Yes, my son had stepped in his own shit and danced around the bathroom, leaving trails upon trails of poop in his wake. On the positive side, if his trails of poop are any indication, this kid's got some wicked dance moves.
So in the end, I wound up using all of the hot water to hose down my poopy little entertainer. All of the hot water that I was saving for the nice, relaxing bath that I really, desperately needed was gone. I was left with nothing more than lukewarm water and a tub laced with poo residue. And that, my friends, is a perfect commentary on how these last couple of weeks have been - perfectly and completely shitty (but without the awesome dance moves). But there's always tomorrow... (I feel like I should bust out with the chorus of "Tomorrow" from "Annie")
And of course, just because I'll really probably never have another legitimate reason to share this and everyone should know a song about poo...
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