POOP
From an email I sent several years back when going through potty training with my son (now 7).
ENJOY!
Friday, April 29, 2005 8:08 PM
My son is a little over three, and currently potty training. He is extremely
proud, and after only a week, extremely capable of peepeeing on the potty.
He is most proud of the fact that he can stand up like a big boy, like daddy
does it. He does not, unfortunately, and may I stress the major importance
of this unfortunate battle, he does NOT know how to turn around and poo poo
on the potty. Let me again re-state for the record, impending bowel
movements are not, at this juncture, a signal to turn around and sit his ass
down and let the evil out.
So tonight, with Griffin a bit under the weather, groggy and feverish,
tired, and, yes, pent up with all the contents that he has not had enough
sense to turn around and let out… Well, tonight the unfortunate happened.
A few minutes after bedtime, Griffin informed me that he had to go potty. I
assumed this meant to peepee, as usual. I tool him to the bathroom and
proudly watched him stand in front of the toilet, like his daddy, just about
to go — or so I thought. After a wince, a little look of slight pain and
confusion, he let go, literally — Shit spray. The sound was that of a pent
up sprinkler and it’s first release on the new green lawn after winter
storage. I was horrified, Griffin was horrified. Sidney came of her room to
check on the scene, but I quickly rushed her back to bed, hedging those
therapy bills I saw in my future. I called for Gregg in the next room, but
he didn’t answer — he knew better.
That is when it started. Clean up. I got Griffin tidied up, calmed down and
in bed in no time. Amazing how when something exits your body so fast and
with so much force, not much is left on you… Off he went to dreamland,
tummy empty, butt clean, happy and tired. Now to find Gregg…
It is not that I would not have cleaned it up myself, no, not at all. If no
one had been home but me, or expected home within three to four hours of the
spraying incident, certainly I would have cleaned it, or at least, shut the
door and moved to Jamaica. However, Gregg and I have an understanding. I
don’t do poop. Not in that kind of quantity or mass, anyway. He is usually
fine with this, and I immediately set out to find him.
I have never really seen anyone so in tune with the washing machine than at
that very moment in time. He was one with it, as if I would think he was a
part of it so he would blend in, not be discovered and have to peer in to
the shit covered bathroom. He was totally ignoring me. I can’t say that I
blame him, really, I would put it off as long as possible. He came around,
though, after a poke or two, and I directed him to the bathroom. Turns out
he had heard the shot heard round the world… And froze, in terror.
He went in, addressed it, and decided to change out of his work clothes and
into shorts before attacking. As he changed, I noticed a smell not of this
world coming out of there and began to say a prayer. After changing, he went
in again, and right back out, for rubber gloves and bleach…
Turns out, not only was it on the walls, but the baseboards, the floor, the
tiles, the grout, the the wicker trashcan, (deemed unsalvageable),outside
the radiator, inside the radiator, and, outside the toilet. Nothing,
however, at all, made it inside the toilet.
While he was cleaning, I figured I would empty the dishwasher. I finished
that but he still wasn’t done. Then I loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the
countertops, had a glass of wine… Still not done. He usually laughs at me
for drinking so much coffee but never making it. So, I cleaned the coffee
maker – completely. I scrubbed the inside of the pot, as I discovered that I
was the only one with hands small enough to fit in there. This was a long
and painful process. Still cleaning downstairs. Profanity louder, grunting
harder, disgust more prominent. I made the coffee for the morning. I set the
timer. I had more wine.
I heard him coming up the stairs and turned to meet him. He was standing at
the top of the stairs, smelly, angry, and naked. His clothes were unsuitable
to give to the poor. I think he may have burned them in the alley. He told
me he was getting in the shower and asked if I had any objections. I told
him no, naturally, then dutifully informed him of the cleaning and loading
of the coffeemaker. He then asked me if it was filled with liquid feces, as
that was pretty much what he had been dealing with…
One of our clients, who is over several restaurants, found, on an ordinary
trip to the mens room, a white athletic sock stained with poop in the trash
can, and no toilet paper on the roll. He wound up having to line up all the
bus boys and examine their ankles. Sure enough, there was one moronic
bastard with one sock on, soon to be fired, but well wiped. The culprit of
the “shit sock”.
Well, tonight, Gregg was the “shit sock”. He was the handy and helpful wiper
of all that surrounded him.
I am so proud of my freshly showered “shit sock”. He went in and tackled the
freakshow stream of amityville hell in which our little son had covered our
walls. He is a survivor. He is a true parent, fearless and ready. Now, our
children may poop and pee in the morning without the terror of liquid feces
attacking them.
I, on the other hand, made coffee.