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| Great story, Mom. |
Let me set the stage for you.
Nora, having recently begun the whole All Underwear, All The Time show, was having a hit or miss kinda morning. That said, by 9am I had already sanitized everything on which a little bum could fit. (Because, the sad reality is this: Potty training a two year-old is awfully akin to chasing an incontinent velociraptor.)
Susannah, for her part, had been constipated for two days. And was covered with mashed avocado after a messy “lunch.” Simply coated in the stuff. Between that and her sister’s combo of soaked pants and a runny nose, I figured that both of them could use a nice, relaxing, cleansing bath.
Except.
Once in the bath, Nora freaked out from [her newly acquired and very real fear of] water in her eye. She cried. A lot. This caused two things to happen: Nora’s boogs started to stream down her face AND Susannah was frightened into her own set of tears.
Zuzu, also in the bath, cried so hard that she pooped everywhere. EVERYWHERE.
And I had one of those moments where I had to decide whom to save first. The child whose feces these weren’t, or the one who was not yet sick? The toddler with a so-so immune system or the infant with none whatsoever? The child who had yet to pee on me that morning, or the one who had just given me her favorite sticker heart because I was the best Mom ever?
I chose Susannah, figuring that the baby would be quicker. I CHOSE INCORRECTLY. Because.
While attempting to dry and/or clean the baby on the bathroom floor, Nora decided [rightfully so] that the water swirling down the drain was gross. So she helped me out by flinging it all over the bathroom to get it out of the tub. That’s right, handfuls of poop, flying everywhere.
Both girls went back into the tub for a makeshift shower while in my arms. And I still could not guarantee that anyone in that room was actually clean.
As we exited the bathroom, one of the cats puked three times in front of me: a hairball, some followup hairball, and a third puddle just for fun.
And playing on the radio that whole time? Hall and Oates’ timeless classic, You Make My Dreams Come True. (Forget that- I clearly make my own dreams come true.)
Later on, when both girls had finally settled into naptime and I was able to super clean the bathroom for the third time that morning, I called P.J. to regale him with my epic o’ bodily fluids. I expected sympathy, hoped for empathy. But his response?
CONCERN FOR THE CAT.
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