Man, you think you’ve seen it all after having a baby. I’ve changed the diapers, I’ve caught the spit up, I’ve even picked the boogers out with my bare pinky. And I do it out of love. Anything for Elie Mae.
But there are times when I find EM pushing the limits just for the fun of it.
Like the time we were on our way to visit friends and Elie Mae squirted out a week’s worth of sloppy poo in her carseat. I don’t mean like, “Paul, can you hand me a Ziploc? I need to pick up a little poo.” I mean like, “Well, crap. Everywhere. Just crap. Grab a garden hose.”
Elie Mae, I have the picture on my iPhone, and I will show it to you one day when we have our talk called “Pushing the Limits.”
Today she did it again. (Not the carseat shtick, she’s over that.) And she is so sly, you see, because she’s been sick. She’s had a fever for three days and now a rash, and for the two weeks, every time she tries to go #2, she squints and pops out a Play-Doh pellet. The thing is 5cm wide but smells like a landfill. So my sympathy level has been high.
Before I took her to the doctor today, I figured I’d better bathe her. I filled her little pink tub that sits within a regular bathtub. Then I sat her in it with all her favorite toys: a measuring cup, a foam star, and a butter knife. And a vintage Rick James doll. And an old piece of weave.
But anyhow, all was well. Elie was splashing and babbling, and I was enjoying seeing her perk up.
Suddenly, she sat up a bit straighter, extended her pudgy legs straight in front of her, and focused. She started blowing bubbles. From her backside.
Now this was funny. I am into farts. So I’m laughing at Eliot, the human tugboat, and she relaxes a bit, herself, realizing everybody passes gas. She blows a few more bubbles, makes her bottom roar deep and low, and then I look behind her.
This isn’t funny. There are tiny bits of poop floating behind her–an archipelago of human waste. Thankfully, I had already washed her body, and her hair would just have to wait.
But I hadn’t seen the worst (cue Thriller music). I picked her up and laying on the bottom of her pink tub was a firm train of poo. And because it was in water, it spread. Soon the foam star was eating poo. Rick James had on turd glasses. The butter knife was spreading apple crap butter.
So I did what any other responsible stay-at-home mom would do. I told my husband. I cleaned Eliot, dressed her, and marched downstairs. “Guess who pooped in the tub?” I asked. (Luckily, he didn’t take the low road in answering.)
“Oh, good!” he said.
“In the tub!” I repeated.
“Oh, well, I meant good that she pooped.”
Now I am all into silver linings. Jesus is like the best at that. He’s all, “Don’t worry, it’s gonna be fine.” Like, “Yeah, it’s gonna rain for 40 days, but behind door number 3… is a beautiful boat!” So I’m into that kind of thinking. Just not when it comes to seeing live human waste floating in water.
I love my Elie Mae. But in the back of my head, all I can hear is the voice of Dr. Claw, the evil nemesis of Inspector Gadget. “I’ll get you next time, Elie Mae, next time. Muahahahaha!”