Shit Happens

My almost six year old son, Jake, has been potty-trained for quite a while now.  He was actually early to start using a toilet, for a boy.  About 2 years and 8 months, but who’s keeping track?

He’s such a pro at using the facilities, he’ll even multi-task by continuing to play Zombie Highway, on his ITouch, while expertly dropping his drawers and wiggling back on his throne.  I’m so proud. My little man in training.

So, I was a little surprised this evening when we had a slight mishap in the Candlelight Inn’s (best wings evahhh) not so savory loo.  As Jake goes into his stall, I hear him fussing with his jacket.  Then he comes out of the stall, and says “I have to put my jacket somewhere.  There’s no room.”  I told him not to worry, “Mommy will hold it.”

Back in, he goes.  I hear his little hands struggling with the lock, and then the definitive click, signaling that his privacy has finally been granted.  Meanwhile, I start to check the weather on my IPhone, when Jake’s sweet, yet devilish, voice cuts through my thoughts, with,  “Oh no!  I pooped on the floor!”

“What?” I exclaim.  “You pooped on the floor?”

“Yes.  My tushie couldn’t hold it in, and it just came out.  Splat.  Too fast, so I didn’t have time to sit on the toilet.  But, I still have more, so that will go where it’s supposed to.”

Well, thank G-d for that!

Let’s just say, there’s a big difference between your toddler’s toilet training accidents, and a six year old boys’.  I shudder even now at the thought.

Yet, as any good mother would do, I grabbed as many paper towels as possible, said a prayer, and bent down to scoop the poop.  I did a great job too.  No evidence was left behind.  Well, some was left behind but I filled the trash can with enough paper towel and toilet paper camouflage that no one would suspect a thing.

I then scrubbed my hands like I had OCD that no amount of meds could control.  And, then I washed them some more, with Purell.

When I came back into the waiting area, I gave my husband, Mark, a look that said, “Don’t ask.”  Speaking over a somewhat smaller woman, who was holding her own child, I then proceeded to tell him, “You don’t want to know what just took place.”  The woman looked up at me with a knowing smile.

So, instead of filling Mark in on the details, I told this comrade-in-arms about my latest “shitty” experience.  We shared a nice little chuckle together, and then I apologized to her for ruining her appetite.

With a sypathetic smile, she said, “Don’t worry. we’ve all been there.”

I’ve had many a crappy life experience, but never one quite so literal.  And, as nauseous as I may have been, there’s no one else’s excrement I’d rather clean-up than my little boys’.