Nash and the Shit Eating Grin

When you’re pregnant, there’s a list a mile long (and then some) of the things you can’t consume and/or do for the sake of the unborn baby. No sushi. No beer. No sandwich meat. No shell fish. No wine. No soft cheese. Not TOO much coffee. Literally none of the good stuff. In restaurants, you fall into the category of the ‘hard to please’ customer next to the gluten allergy folks and the grumpy vegans – scanning feverishly for an entree that won’t turn your unborn baby into a disease ridden slow learner with obese tendencies and a limp. On top of that – you avoid paint. You avoid cat litter. You avoid smokers and drug dealers and Pepto Bismol and hot tubs and saunas and stilettos.  And thank God you did all of that for the sake of baby’s health because when your perfect baby is finally born into the world… it decides to eat poop.  Its SISTER’S poop.

So we’ve covered the fact that Piper is now potty trained, right? At three years old. Could’ve been at two years old but she wasn’t breastfed – and I think I ate a Jersey Mike’s sub during her pregnancy. That issue aside – she is basically a pro at the potty. But here’s the kicker… just because you train those little suckers to use the potty, doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for wiping their butts. Nope. You are still the full-time snack bitch and wiper of tiny butts.

So the other day, Piper told me she was going to “poo poo.” And she went into her bathroom and closed the door because, you know, privacy. She gets to poop in private solitude. Me? Never going to happen. I get to powder my nose with an audience and a nosy narrator (See Example Here). So after about 10-minutes of the private poop, I popped my head into her bathroom to ask if her highness was ready to be wiped. To my horror, she had apparently STARTED pooping in her pants, pulled the pants down, then sat on the potty to finish the deed. To paint the graphic picture: poop on the back of her legs. Poop on the toilet seat. Poop in the potty (good). To make matters slightly worse, she had attempted to do her own wipe job. That means, she used about 150 wipes and filled the toilet with them. So naturally, I praised her for her efforts, and promptly plunked her into the bathtub while I made the mad dash to the laundry room for Clorox EVERYTHING. Wipes. Spray. All the things with bleach.

In the 1.3 seconds that I was away – I hear, “MOMMY – NASH IS EATING POOP.”

Of course he is.

So I SPRINTED back to the bathroom and discovered nasty Nash standing at the toilet with HIS SISTER’S POOP WIPES hanging from his mouth with a shit eating grin – LITERALLY.

This is the same picky baby who won’t eat green beans, or meat puree, or carrot mush. But hey, Piper’s poop wipes will do the trick. Let’s all just get e-coli. Thank God I didn’t eat shell fish with him. Or deli meat. Or (too much) wine.

Of course, Tye got home from work shortly after the fiasco to find both of his children in the bathtub while I was attempting to restore sanitation to the bathroom and unclog the 66-year old toilet of 5.2M wipes.

His response? “Weren’t you watching Nash? How did you let this happen?”

I swear, in my next life, I want to come back as a dad so I can walk into a literal shit storm and ask seemingly innocent yet poorly timed questions.

Love them all, mean it.