My kids are deep into the potty talk stage and although I've been assured that this is a completely normal part of being three, I grow weary. There is entirely too much poop in my life without having to listen to Maggie sing "My bottom came to school today, school today, school today. My vagina came to school today. Early in the morning," during bath time (complete with visual aids, thank you very much).
Between the dog, four chickens, and two mostly-potty-trained pre-schoolers it can sometimes feel as if I am always either wiping a butt or picking up a steaming pile of excrement. I suppose this is the life I signed on for, and seeing as I am fortunate enough to have indoor plumbing, a hefty supply of wipes, and a mop, I shouldn't complain. But, please, allow me to recount my day.
It started at five when Maggie woke up cocooned in a mass of urine-soaked blankets. Once that was cleaned up and she was once again ensconced in her requisite pink (we said we wouldn't, but we do), we stumbled downstairs for our Cheerios only to be greeted by our dog's diarrhea splattered across the living room floor like some Jackson Pollack masterpiece. Okaaay, we said, taking a deep breath, we've been through this before. The Mister changed into his Haz. Mat. suit (cut off sweatpants and an old stained t-shirt) and took the rug outside for a little pressure hosing.
I went to work.
Fast forward ten hours.
I arrive home with the kids (the Mister is swimming in the Bay) and upon opening the front door, am confronted with a physics problem I assure you I am incapable of figuring out. It goes like this: how can all that shit possibly have been inside that medium-sized dog?
So now we have no rug and no rug pad.
But our floors are VERY clean at the moment and I leave for Venice in 36 hours, so again, I can't complain.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, the next line is, "My penis came to school today, school today, school today." Everybody sing!
I'm an expert, but if you need help identifying who made these turds, go here.
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4 comments:
Reminds me of the time, John let Bella finish a pot of refried beans (who knows what he was thinking). She puked and shit all over the living room wall to wall carpet. He cleaned it up while smoking a cigar (yes, in the house!) to cover the stench. I stayed in the other room but felt so bad for him as I listened to him gagging the whole time. I didn't feel bad enough to offer to help though. I feel your pain. Why DO we sign up for this?! I'm off to get my vagina into the shower...
I feel your potty pain. And it goes on until at least 7 y.o. My office mates were actually impressed with the potty lyrics my kids came up with to the tune of frosty the snowman--so perhaps it is a sign of intelligence. Make sure you start dinner table rules that include--no potty talk at the dinner table.
-KT
My daughter sings a little ditty about her bagina (she can't really pronounce the letter V) and dare I say? It's quite a catchy tune.
But dog baginas and butts and poop and blah? Nuh-uh. I mean, they've got dogs that can sniff out cancer; must they still eat their own poo?
OMG, I am ROLLING!
Sorry about the poop though.
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