Silly you. You probably assume this is about that time when my child wore a diaper and pooed during a long car ride, or something equally as innocent.
I assure you – nothing about this incident is innocent.
May I become Sophia Petrillo for a moment? Picture it — Hoosick Falls. June, 2013:
It is 6 a.m. and we hear a train downtown and a car horn going off somewhere nearby. How annoying. Suddenly my husband says, “I have a bad feeling that G is not in the house.” Naturally, I scan the kids’ room and I see one child asleep. But wait – don’t we have two children?
Yes, we do.
I check all the rooms in the house but G is nowhere to be found. Something strikes me that perhaps I ought to check outside. I go through our yard and I wonder why I am so compelled to check the driveway. Why would a three-year-old be in the driveway at 6 a.m., right? Funny you should ask…
I see a little person bopping around in my car and I go to the window. It’s G, of course, and he looks at me with surprise, like, “Holy hell, Mommy actually found me!” Little guy unlocks the door and immediately begins apologizing. So he knows he’s in the wrong.
I open the door. I want to yell at him and tell him my car is not his god damn clubhouse, but my attention is taken by the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt. Or a diaper. And hey, why are the contents of my glove compartment emptied onto my floor?
And hey, WHY THE F*** IS THERE SHIT ALL OVER MY CAR?
Perhaps G stepped in doggy poopy while on his way to my car, and now he’s stepped all over the car and it’s everywhere. But Walter’s poop has a very different smell than people poop; I love him more than anyone ever, but I don’t feed him steak and potatoes. That fella’s on “healthy weight” dog food. His poop is healthier than any human in my house.
The smell of this poop is kid poop – like a horrible mixture of chicken nuggets and mac-n-cheese and fresh death. This is my car’s new air freshener.
(Oh, and did I mention I was hung over that morning? Bonus.)
Then it all meshes together in my brain as I note the soft-serve on the baby’s car seat, the fingerprint poop smear on the window, the chunks of crap on EVERY SEAT BUT HIS OWN, and the fact that he is sans diaper.
This kid pooped in my car.
He must have been saving it up for days, because he had enough to deposit it in four seats and on one window. I don’t know how he’s managed it, but the poop is in very specific areas of the car, as if he’d been cognizant of each location’s significance. For instance, a perfectly precise coil of poo landed on his sister’s seat, as well as on my arm rest and the passenger’s side. But his car seat was immaculate.
It is difficult to think of the first question to ask in a situation such as this, so I save my questions and drag him from the car. I immediately place the animal in the tub, consider drowning him, then turn to see my groggy husband’s wide eyes.
“Don’t even *expletive* talk to me right *expletive* now.”
It is then that this man had the audacity to grin. I remember envisioning divorce papers falling from the sky.
My husband and his grin took care of my animal son while I assessed the damages to my car. (I would like to note that if this had happened to my husband’s car, there’d be one less alive child in the house.)
G told me later that he didn’t know why he’d taken off his diaper and pooped in Mommy’s car, because all he really wanted to do was “get into Mommy’s car and drive to see the train that was making all that noise.” I guess trains really rumble the bowels, or something.
I made the beast help me clean the car. I am not sure how to explain how incredibly filthy an experience it was, but then again it’s probably the kind of thing that needs no explanation. Let me just say that my favorite part was pulling out the quarters from the air vents, which G tried to plug up because “money fits in there.”
And then I used those quarters to buy giant deadbolts for our home’s interior doors.