Gonna keep this one short. Ish. Okay, not really that short. It’s about diarrhea. Enjoy. I know I did.
|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.
“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.
|Why the big potty is scary. Just another fun image when you google "crocs" and "poop".|