Well, it’s going to be one of those days. Living here in the beautiful NW, sometimes you have to roll with the weather related punches and today is going to take some heavy duty Matrix moves. The kiddos got up to icicles hanging from all surfaces outside and so it is a “stolen day” in my home. You know the kind where all preconceived notions of agendas and “to do lists” have to be thrown out the window and instead the family just hangs out in their jammies and drinks hot cocoa.
So I was meandering through the faux news of the world and came across the following little gem:
I don’t know about you, but I love this. I think I must have spent some serious time in trouble in a previous lifetime, because at my heart lives a prankster. I may not play many pranks on others, but I find a good prank to be oh so fine. Perhaps it is hereditary. According to local and familial legend, my grandfather once took part in placing an old Model T on the peak of the school’s roof. I wish I could have seen it. Who knew I had anything in common with Ashton Kutcher?
So yesterday, when I headed back to retrieve the 2 forgotten items from the shopping mecca, one of them was a box of diapers. Apparently, it may be the last box I need to buy. Or not. At 2.5 years, one would think our youngest would be potty-trained already. But, those of you who have been down this path know just how capricious it is. So I come through the door all happy-like and notice my DH is one big crab-toe. As in, “wow, has he been like this the whole time I’ve been gone? Sheesh.” But, it seems his mood deteriorated for good reason. Just before I got home, apparently the youngest little angel in our home had come upstairs, sans diaper. This is never a good thing. The little minx has learned how to prank already.
So, DH asks said angel where his diaper is. “Dowstairs.” DH, being a wise father, asks, “Does it have poop in it?” “Yep.” (Upon hindsight, this appears to have been a complete fabrication as the poop was no where near the diaper, but I am getting ahead of myself.) So my dear, dear husband takes a peak at son’s backside, and sure enough, there is a trail of poop running from his buns to his foot. DH tells the little prankster to stand “right there and don’t move” and heads down to the basement to find the diaper. Returns upstairs having had no luck finding it.
“Where is your diaper?” Raised shoulders, look of puzzlement, “No?” So, DH picks up our son and carries him, held out in front of him in precisely the way a person would hold a poop-covered child, down to the basement where son guides DH to the two piles of poop – not in the diaper but one on a clipboard and one on a folding chair. Yippee. Son is then returned to main floor, given the earlier command to not “move a muscle buster” and then the offending piles are taken to the toilet and disposed.
I need you to fully appreciate this so let me set the stage a bit. We live in a 2 story drafty house, three stories if you count the basement. We have one bathroom – on the second floor. I have lost all ability to keep our house looking “Better Homes and Garden”-like, so it is pretty much a war zone. It is Christmas and that means there is Christmas crap all over the place – things like wreath boxes, strings of lights which only partially light, and a few odd ornaments rolling about. And there are three children who refuse to keep their playthings in the basement, so there is always about 200 spare Legos and doll shoes lying about.
So, in order to actually dispose of the poop piles, husband must pick up clipboard and folding chair (thank goodness it is child sized!). Keeping poop precariously balanced on each surface, DH climbs stairs from basement, avoids the various traps laid between the basement stairs and the living room stairs (there are 38 stair treads in total) until pushing open the bathroom door with one elbow, balancing the clipboard on the tub edge, lifting the commode lid and beginning the fond farewell. I believe this may have had a soundtrack of dry heaves and softly mewling noises, punctuated with profanity, but I am guessing at this part.
I get home, husband is looking terribly frazzled and the little poopster is in the tub.
I’m thinking potty-training is in our future. Of course, I don’t believe in potty training per se. I’ve always found that I am the only one being trained. I’m fine with sending my children to Prom with a clean pull-up in their pocket. Really folks, the little sphincters will get the hang of it without stickers and such things. Right? Oh alright. I’ll go get the potty chair out of the attic.
So, I’m off to have a second cup of coffee, find warm and dry mittens for the kiddos, and decide what I am going to use as bribery. The house is a mess, the toddler needs to poop in the toilet and the husband needs some serious cheering up. And we’re all stuck inside due to this ice and snow storm. Perhaps I should just mix us all up some hot toddies and call it a good day.