Poop Talk

I was over at VeryMom (now Kerflop) and she has a very funny post about children and the loveliness of poop and potty training today. It got me thinking about one of the worst/hardest days of my life as a mother. It’s something about having three children. Once that is ‘under control’ anything is possible.:

Now, about the poop – the hardest day of motherhood I have ever had was when number three was a few months old (I think four months) and I was still recovering from a weeks worth extremely high fever (105) from the flu and the wee baby child had Rota-virus and had just herself recently gotten over RSV. As I was nursing her she let loose, well, her bowels let loose. Yes, to all you who have children who have breastfed know that breast milk explosions often happen while nursing (right before or immediately after) and those explosions can be big, but let’s mix in a little Rota-virus and see how much bigger the explosion can be, shall we? OK, so now we go from the smell that I refer to as ButterButt (breast milk poop, it has a sweet creamy smell although stinky, or is it just me?) to that of something so foul I have only smelled during my years working at a veterinarians office and tending to small puppies who have Parvo (and sadly enough it is very similar to the smell of death). Oh, the smell, and the sounds of a screaming baby being taken off the breast for a cleaning because THAT time I wasn’t finishing that nursing session until I was clean. Oh, yeah, the baby too.

Picture this: I place her on the changing table, proceed to take off all her clothes while trying to do so without getting it all over her head as I strip her, then take off her diaper and throw it in the pail. But what to my wondering ears do I hear, but the voice of my child screaming with fear, “Mama, Mama, the house is on fire! I swear! I swear! I’m not a liar!” (OK so I took a little bit of editorial liberty there.) My four year old let me know that the not-yet-two-year-old had started a fire.

So I place poor, nasty, RotoButt (with poop) all over her on the floor on a towel that had been used the night before and not put in the dirty clothes. She was screaming sounds of, “How dare you not let me nurse when I’m hungry!” and “I can’t believe you put me on the floor with this crap all over me and walked away!” and the she added, “HOW DARE YOU! YOU ARE NOT MY MOTHER ANYMORE!” I run to the den and yes, yes, the house is on fire. My precious almost two year old boy, in those few seconds I was gone from the room had broken the lock on the fireplace gate, taken the broom tool, stuck it in the fire, it *duh* caught on fire (I know he didn’t know it would), and then dropped it on the floor catching the very old, dirty, dry, thus quick to burn, carpet on fire!

I took the vase from the nearby bookshelf and dumped it on the floor. Meanwhile my 4 year old daughter had called 9-1-1 and hung up before I knew she called and before they answered. They of course, during this fiasco call back to make sure all was well. Me, not knowing that she had called and that it was they calling back to check on us, did not answer the phone – because I had better things to do. Since I did not answer the phone (as I was busy getting more water)authorities decided the Sheriff needed to drop by my house. He arrives just as I get the last flame out. My RotoButt baby is now screaming to the point that the neighbors can hear her and I have to choose between answering the door or getting my baby and having the door kicked in as I do so. I chose to get my baby. I arrive back in my room to find she had maneuvered herself, in her screaming panic attack way off the towel and all over the carpet in that room. So now that she has cleansed herself of all poop (read sarcastically: smeared it everywhere) I can pick her up and answer the door. I have no idea how bad we all looked, but to this day I’m not sure he believed my story. I made him smell my baby – she still smelled gross. And was very hesitant to leave my house that day. He left, I locked the door, put all my children in my lap and cried and cried and cried. I laugh about it now.

One more thing I forgot to mention, that all this visiting with the Sheriff happened while I was shirtless – I did have on the nursing bra, but one side was still unhooked.