So my daughter's bouncing away in her doorway jumper yesterday. It's one of those Sundays where it seems like a bitch to even get our sorry asses outside. Laundry everywhere, vacuuming, a deadly obstacle course of toys, Jay Jay The Jet Plane on the VCR, and a little blogging. Bryan walks by Stella with a handful of clean sock balls and says, "Did you poop? It smells like poop," but goes about his business.
A few minutes later I'm washing dishes and I hear, "Elise, come here." Bryan's tone suggests I should drop everything and run, even though I'm down to two items in the sink and it drives me crazy not to finish. So I walk into our bedroom, and follow his gaze to Stella, happily bouncing in her doorway jumper between the living room and our bedroom, and the horror unfolds in slo-mo snapshots before my eyes:
1. Poop is flowing down her legs like lava.
2. She's happily, obliviously sliding her feet around in a pizza-pie-sized pond of poo.
3. How the hell are we going to clean up this shit?
4. Thank God this didn't happen when it was just me at home with the kids.
5. In my perma-frazzled state did I forget to put a fresh diaper on her?
6. No. So, I pray. Please, Lord, never again. And yet,
7. I feel inducted into motherhood in a whole new (poo!) way.
So, to work cleaning up we went. Bryan grabbed a towel and wrapped Stella in it. We threw her in the tub. Threw her clothes, the towel, the bouncy seat into the tub, then into the laundry. She was pissed to leave the fun slidey zone. She cried. Hamish stepped in it. I finished bathing Stella while Bryan barricaded Hamish and mopped up the poopy floor. Jesus had mercy on our rugs but the mobile on the floor got hit and we threw it in the garbage. This morning I found a poop schmear on the shower curtain but other than that, you'd never know our apartment was the scene of such heinousness.