Poop. There is poop everywhere.
My 3-year-old calls to me from the bathroom. “Mom! Mom!” she shrieks. I rush to her. Surely my panic attack has come true and she’s fallen in the tub and gotten stuck down the drain. Instead I find her standing naked next to a toilet bowl filled with what can only be described as butt ceviche. “Ta-dah!” she hoots, jazz-fingering toward the bowl. She is the Liza Minnelli of craps.
My baby loves to take off her diaper after she poops in it. She can say the word “poop” and sign “diaper,” but chooses never to do either of these things. Instead I hear that terrifying ripping sound of diaper adhesive coming from the living room while I’m bent over the stove attempting to be Pinterest-y. Soon I am picking up poop chunks off the floor, while shouting at her not to step in them. There are so many places for her to walk and yet she just wants to be all up in that poop. The 3-year-old comes running in because her destiny is also to torture me by coming THISCLOSE to stepping in poop while singing Frozen songs. I end up washing their feet in tub. We eat fish sticks for dinner. I am so f*cking sick of Frozen.
When the baby does poop in her diaper they are huge – softball-sized or flattened like a pancake grilled on her little butt skillet. I shake the diapers over the toilet violently to get the poop into the bowl. Most of the time the water splashes onto my hands as they plop in. I used to gag and scrub myself. Now I barely flinch. Sometimes I forget to wash my hands.
Did you know those diaper pails don’t work? No one tells you this when you’re dropping fifty dollars on what is essentially a plastic bucket with a cheap air freshener glued inside. I spent hours trying to figure out exactly how to hang those fancy garbage bags from the inside of the diaper bin, only to discover it doesn’t matter. In a few days the house will reek of rotting poops and when I finally remove the bag from the trash can the smell is so overwhelming that I barf a little bit of my breakfast up in my mouth.