Sunday, December 9, 2012

Sunday Special: Poop Soup

Gonna keep this one short. Ish. Okay, not really that short. It’s about diarrhea. Enjoy. I know I did.

This event was last weekend, but I had an incident with the cat today that reminded me. The cat story, if you must know, is just that he jumped up in my lap, purring, and smelling like fresh icky ca-ca. I looked him over and found that he had done a sub-par job cleaning himself up after his last visit to the litterbox. Gross, Captain Hotdog, I thought cats were supposed to be more hygienic. No cuddle for you. 

So. My story. We were at the in-laws for a little birthday celebration. Kids were playing happily with the numerous new toys they’d gotten from Nana, even though the birthday in question was neither of theirs. 

Suddenly, a sound of great distress. The boy says something about poop. I think he said he needs to go. “NOOOOOOO!!!!” he shrieks, “I already pooped!” This is not spoken with the enthusiasm and pride which usually accompanies such an announcement. He is deeply worried. I remember the abnormal looseness of his poo earlier that day.  So then I am deeply worried too.

Sure enough, he is petrified and unmoving in a small puddle of brown fluid, which is trickling down his jeans and onto the floor. (Thankfully, hardwood floor.) Trying not to panic and/or show my utter disgust, because I don’t want him any more guilty and afraid than he already is, I whisk him into a nearby bathroom—holding him as far away from me as freaking possible. Drip, drip, drip…um, ew.
Whoever designed this image had no idea just how true it would be.

Unsure of what the best way to proceed is, I put him in the tub and take off his shoes. He is wearing Crocs (don’t judge), which are serving quite nicely as soup bowls. Poop soup. Stifling a super gag, I set them aside and begin carefully removing the soiled jeans, calling for assistance from my dear husband (in a melodic, sing-song Disney princess voice, naturally). We proceed to rinse both clothes and boy, and I fetch cleaning supplies for the floor, unsuccessful in my attempts at downplaying the chaos and sheer sickness of it all. 

In the middle of all the liquid poo and screaming boy, Dooley is summoned away to assist with our other child, who has suddenly joined in the chorus of screams, because she decided it seemed like a great idea to leap off a kitchen chair onto the hardwood floor with her head. 

While he consoles our little girl, I finally have the boy in a warm bath of clean water, with the soiled items rinsed and bagged. But then, he stands up, his newly minted smile gone. “I need to go poo again!” CRAP! Literally. CRAP. 

Now, at home, he’s totally fine going number two on his “frog potty”: a little training toilet shaped like a frog. Don’t know why the designers picked a frog to get defecated on, but it works great. He also has a potty seat insert (with cute lil duckies on it) for going on a grown-up toilet without the fear of falling in. Of course, we have neither of them with us. Doom.

 I convince him to try sitting on the big potty. I will hold him. He clutches onto me like a koala bear about to fall into the jaws of a hungry crocodile as I squat in front of him. He’s whimpering in terror, desperately pleading for his frog potty. Once it is clearly understood that his frog potty is not present, he starts begging to go home. Home is an hour away. I can only imagine the discomfort in his little bowels as he forces the impending blast to stay put. I am desperate too. I start thinking of alternatives. Sink? Dog bowl? To my right is a small stainless steel trashcan with a lid.  

“Want to poop in the trash can?” I ask, half joking, not really expecting any reply. 

He stops crying and looks at it. “Yeah!” he says with a sudden grin. I am sure he is happy due to the anticipated relief as well as out of the standard little boy joy about pooping in weird places.

 “Really?” I ask. He nods vigorously, obviously in a big hurry. “Okay then…”

I pick him up and move him one foot over. He squat-hovers over it (that’s not exactly a comfortable toilet seat), and promptly does his business. Of course the trash can has a liner in it, but those things are not totally spill-proof, and guess what happened when he was all done and I went to take it out? Yup. Drip, drip. Baarrrrrf. “Need more trash bags!!!!” I sing down the stairs, over the still-screaming little girl.

No sooner have the supplementary trash bags arrived, that the boy has to go again. I rapidly replace the liner as he grins and waits. This happens three times. He refuses to go in a used bag. Now he is just enjoying it. At least one of us is. 

The end.

Why the big potty is scary. Just another fun image when you google "crocs" and "poop".

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