Sabotaged by poop
The cries of anguish and pain from the bathroom had me running from the bedroom in case the baby had cracked his head open on the side of the bath, fallen out of his bath seat or lost his favourite toy to his older Sister.
I was midway from mascara to eyelash, getting ready for our first couples night out with other parents from Curly Girl’s school. OH had just left to collect our babysitter and we were on time. Just.
I dropped the mascara and jogged into the bathroom half-dressed.
“What’s going on in here?” I said looking directly, if somewhat unfairly, at Curly Girl.
But it wasn’t something she’d done.
I shifted my gaze.
Little Man’s face was read and sweaty, contorted into a grimace reminiscent of a weightlifter attempting to hoist his own body weight above his head. He gasped for breath before straining again. Finally he screeched one more time before collapsing into a flood of tears.
“He’s doing a poo! Help, get me out, get me out!” My daughter cried, pointing in terror at her brother and trying to clamber up the side of the bath. A picture of a wildebeest frantically scrambling up the slippery banks of a crocodile-infested river flashed into my mind.
I rescued Curly Girl and wrapped her in a towel before grabbing the baby and pulling him out of his bath seat, still crying. At least the worst had passed, literally, I thought.
Then half way between the bathroom and his nursery, Little Man dripping and squirming in my outstretched arms, I almost slipped as I felt something squidgy under my bare foot.
Now what’s the worst thing you can imagine here?
I looked down. Squished into the carpet was a poop the size of a tennis ball. Clearly what had started in the bath had ended when I picked him up. And of course it missed the easy-to-clean lino and landed on our lovely beige carpet.
And I had stepped in it.
Now I was stuck with a yelling toddler broadcasting the event to the neighbourhood through the power of her voice alone, a dripping, crying baby and a poo-covered foot preventing me from fleeing the scene.
I resisted the temptation to sob and hopped into the nursery, wrapped the baby in a towel, placated the toddler by letting her take a good close look at the poop (I know) and tried to remember where I’d put the Vanish.
An hour later, the children were in bed, the carpet had had the first of many treatments and I was finally ready to go out.
I let a sigh escape my lips.
Then I remembered that I’ve given up alcohol for January.
When fate gets you, she gets you good.