We started yesterday off by arguing about poo.
It started with a ripe aroma. I checked the usual suspect.
Discovered, instead, that the organic bouquet was emanating from the bathroom. You know, the only place in my home that has an internal door. A door that doesn’t lock. But that’s a story for another day. Or have I told that we live in a studio apartment…stop me if you’ve heard this one…
The source? An unflushed toilet.
I won’t tell you WHO unflushed (didn’t flush?) the toilet. But he’s five. *sigh* Oh, Five. You slay me. We know it was You because the rest of us were eating breakfast to the soundtrack of soft grunts.
Maia: Sweet Child*, please flush the toilet.
The Sweet Child: *checks the toilet*
The SC: *does NOT flush the toilet*
TSC: That’s not mine.
Maia: Well, you were the only one in there.
TSC: Nope. Not mine. My poop doesn’t look like that.
Maia: We have all been sitting here. You were the only one in there.
TSC: Nope. My poop doesn’t look like that. It’s a different color.
Maia: I don’t care. It’s yours.
TSC: Is not.
Maia: Is too.
TSC: Is not.
Maia: *roaring* WHY AM I ARGUING WITH YOU ABOUT POOP?!?!?!?! FLUSH THE STINKING TOILET! (<–I know this is a family show. The toilet really did stink…)
TSC: *flushing toilet while muttering*: …but it’s not mine…it was probably an invisible man…
*name changed to preserve my sanity, say it til it’s so
And I’m not really sure what commentary to add to this. I stooped (squatted?) to arguing about poop. With my five-year-old. During breakfast. He’s really good at inciting argument. And I was low on sleep. Because…
…the stomach bug that took down my husband a week and a half ago…
…and then took down Liam and me a week ago…
…took down Logan late Sunday night…
…and Ami, the last standing tree, on Monday morning. The longer they stand, the harder they fall. Or something like that.
This was my trial by acidic stomach contents. We have had some vomit in all nearly-six years of my mothering, but, really, it’s been an unbelievably low amount. Ami, my 10-month-old (YESTERDAY!!!), has now puked more than the boys combined. Most of it landing on my clothes.
It was awful. We lived. I’m telling the story. Because they were my clothes. And it’s my blog.
I’ve never had a puking baby. A little spit up here and there. Nothing major. I think Logan threw up on my bed once after he had a little too much fun on my office chair. But a baby projectile vomiting on the hour? Who must be held and comforted? Who must be kept hydrated? Who doesn’t understand what is happening and why her mother can’t fix it?
I didn’t have enough clothes! Clean OR dirty! Halfway through the day, in a moment between pukes, during one of Ami’s half a dozen baths…
…I found myself wondering what I was going to change into as I peeled out of my last, vomity pair of pants and tee…
…in a moment of faux-spiration, I thought non-coherently, “like a wrap dress! someone should take, like, towels! and cut them up! and sew a dress! that you wrap around you”
Two days later (today, for those of you still caring about some semblance of a timeline), it occurs to me that…it’s called a bathrobe.
Mom Brain: claiming an exponential number of brain cells with every baby. No worries. I’m just gonna blame everything on the Invisible Man Who Leaves Poop In The Toilet.