Mommy.
I.
Pooped.
Three words that you don’t want to hear. Really ever. Unless followed by the words
a) in the potty.
b) two times in the potty.
c) yesterday. In the potty.
Otherwise, you don’t wanna hear those three words. In the middle of Old Navy. When a child is wearing underwear. Because he’s doing the potty training schtick. And because he’s doing pretty well, momma, with the utmost confidence, left the diaper bag in the car.
Do-re-mi-oh-my.
But there’s no room for complainin’.
There’s no slackin’ when poop happens.
Momma’s gotta get it out before it shmooshes into every nook. cranny. fanny.
To the restrooms. The three do go.
{Thank the good Lord there are actually restrooms.}
Survey the surroundings.
Determine that there is no other course of action but to put the babe on the floor.
Because, you’re *certain* it’s super clean.
But you know it’s either that or he swipes at his brother’s poop and shoves a mouthful into his trap. Because he’s Mr. Grabbyhands.
So babe… playing on floor in public restroom.
There’s no slackin’ when poop happens.
Momma’s gotta get it out before it shmooshes into every nook. cranny. fanny.
To the restrooms. The three do go.
{Thank the good Lord there are actually restrooms.}
Survey the surroundings.
Determine that there is no other course of action but to put the babe on the floor.
Because, you’re *certain* it’s super clean.
But you know it’s either that or he swipes at his brother’s poop and shoves a mouthful into his trap. Because he’s Mr. Grabbyhands.
So babe… playing on floor in public restroom.
Momma singing, “t is a consonant a letter in the alphabet” upon toddler’s request.
Heavy poop scent wafting through the single-sized stall.
Surveying the damage.
Filled undies, luckily one big clump, on the bro.
Momma takes the turd to task.
With minimal sweat collecting on her brow.
Babe screams every time the super vortex hand dryers go to town.
Heavy poop scent wafting through the single-sized stall.
Surveying the damage.
Filled undies, luckily one big clump, on the bro.
Momma takes the turd to task.
With minimal sweat collecting on her brow.
Babe screams every time the super vortex hand dryers go to town.
Toddler sings along, “t is a consonant a letter in the alphabet”.
Undies back up.
Poop {mostly} sent packin’.
Undies back up.
Poop {mostly} sent packin’.
Close enough for Government work.
Pants back up.
Baby back up.
Bye bye poops.
Wash. Twice. For good measure.
Pants back up.
Baby back up.
Bye bye poops.
Wash. Twice. For good measure.
Forgo the vortex in favor of a vigorous shaking of hands in the air.
Mama looks in the mirror and makes a mental note to bring the diaper bag everywhere.
Gladiators.
That’s what moms are. Every day, I’m more convinced.
Gladiators.
Well. At least in the poop department.
Like Olivia Pope.
Or, more aptly, on that day, Olivia Poop.
That’s what moms are. Every day, I’m more convinced.
Gladiators.
Well. At least in the poop department.
Like Olivia Pope.
Or, more aptly, on that day, Olivia Poop.
When shit happens, we handle it. Literally.
Because that’s what gladiators do. At least on Scandal.
Mommy.
I.
Pooped.
Bring it on.
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