I woke up this morning to a wonderful breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and eggs made by my husband and children. Nothing unusual about that—we usually do a big breakfast on Saturdays.
After breakfast, I took Eli out of his high chair and noticed that he was pretty much covered from head to toe in pancake batter. You know, from making breakfast.
As Sean and the older kids headed outside to do some yard work, I turned on the bath water and threw the baby in the tub.
A few minutes later, Sean came inside to inform me that his car was broken into. They smashed the front passenger-side window and grabbed his GPS system. Again with the criminals. Lovely.
With the baby still in the tub, I grabbed the phone and called my local politician mother to get the non-emergency number for the sheriff’s office. She informed me that she was just getting ready to call to let me know that she was reading the police reports in the local newspaper and there has been a rash of cars broken into in our area with GPS systems stolen. That piece of information, sadly, came a day late and a few hundred dollars (at least) short.
While on the phone with my mother, Eli started calling to me from the bathroom: “Mommy, all done!” He still needed his hair washed, so I was going to wrap up my conversation with my mom, call the police, then finish up his bath and take him out.
That’s when he started to poop. A lot. It only took me four kids to finally have that lovely experience. To his credit, he did try to warn me.
I took Eli out of the bath and set him on the toilet (thank heaven’s for his recent interest in the potty seat!). Let out water. Start scooping out toys. Put diaper on baby and start cleaning poop out of bath.
That’s when an older brother started yelling at me from the downstairs bathroom. More pooping had been going on, and a small butt needed my wiping expertise.
I finished dressing Eli. Finished scooping poop out of the tub. Flushed the toilet.
At that moment, the full weight of the conversation I heard before I was completely awake this morning—the one wherein Sean told Noah to substitute regular baby wipes for the toddler wipes we are currently out of—sunk in. Unfortunately, that is the only thing that sunk in. The water level in the toilet, to the contrary, started to rise. And bubble (another first for me!). At that point, it wouldn’t have surprised me if the stupid thing blew up. I couldn’t worry about that, though, because it was time for me to start plunging like my life (or, at least, my bathroom floor) depended on it.
It took an effort valiant enough to induce a few contractions, but the toilet finally flushed.
I called the police, tried to wipe the remaining pancake batter out of Eli’s hair with a diaper wipe, and started cleaning up breakfast.
When the deputy showed up, I grabbed Eli and went outside to meet him. As we started to talk, Eli took off around the house and down the hill. I suggested to the deputy that we move to the side of the house where I could see what the baby was doing. As I walked through the grass, I stepped—barefoot—into a pile of dog poop.
Not even ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and I have definitely already met my quota of nasty encounters with fecal matter for an entire week. And I haven’t even cleaned the ferret’s cage yet.
Here’s hoping for a slightly less craptastic remainder of the weekend.