I’m not going to ask you to feel sorry for me, though I am not above seeking pity. But right now, I have plenty of self-pity to keep me comfort. If, however, you want to put some money in my PayPal account, I won’t stop you.
But, pity? Nah.
Ok. Maybe a little.
Jeff’s out of town. You know what that means, right? It should mean I am reading my Oprah magazines, sleeping in the middle of the bed, and eating ice cream for dinner. There are few perks to having a husband who travels, and I milk those perks every single time Jeff boards a plane.
Unfortunately, the perks this week have been scant, unless you consider human fecal matter a treat. If you do, this post may appeal to you, but generally my blog won’t be your cup of tea.
We’re only half-way through Jeff’s business trip and already I have had to unclog TWO toilets. And that was before Sadie came home from school with diarrhea. I am not a squeamish woman– I come from farm people (2 generations ago, but still). I appreciate the foul and the profane. But, when Sadie shat in her Pull-Up during dinner, I can’t say I was waving a banner of celebration.
I hosed her down. I prepared to soak her in the tub. I stripped Simon so he could join her.
“Everyone in the bath!” I endeavored to steer our little father-less ship back to calm waters. There were splashes. There were giggles of glee. I checked my complexion in the mirror– it was rosy with triumph.
“Poop! Poop! Poop!”
God, I don’t know how many times Simon said that before I tore myself away from my reflection. Maybe 50. I turned to the tub where my progeny was soaking and saw no less than 5 turds floating in the water.
“For the love of–”
“Out! Everyone out of the tub!”
I got the kids out and shooed them away– “Go jump on the bed or play on-line poker.” For my part, I stared at those turds, gently floating in the bath water. I wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“I wish Jeff was here.”
I sent him a text, hoping his affable calmness would transmit to me through the phone. Plus, I had to tell someone how awful it smelled in our house.
Let’s just say that his text didn’t add quite as much to the situation as I hoped it would. While I applaud that he was willing to have a picture of the offending logs (that’s called being an involved parent, people), I was in no mood to Instagram Simon’s post-dinner poop. Popsicles were a nice idea, but doesn’t he know that we eat Popsicles for dinner when he’s gone? I am not running a health farm here.
As I bleached the tub and played the role of a mom who knows how to clean stuff, I couldn’t help but think: “I can’t wait until I defecate in my pants and my children have to clean it up.”
I finally got everything sanitized-ish and back to normal (which ain’t that clean, if you must know). You better believe that I did some on-line shopping that night– retail therapy, people. Nights like this were how retail therapy was invented.
And from now on, Simon wears his diaper in the bath when he’s on my watch.
Does your spouse travel? Care to share your favorite perks of solo parenting?