Why Does Poop Always Find Me?

I want to tell you something. When someone with stars in their eyes says that children are a blessing and a miracle and a beautiful story to read anew every day, slap them in the face, Cher-in-Moonstruck-style, and tell them to snap out of it. It is HORSESHIT.

Hey, speaking of shit, read on.

It is 7 pm and snowing out, and our house is roughly 50 degrees. The oil ran out and we need a delivery; who knows when that will happen tonight. But we need it. We’re freezing.

Almost 2-year-old Perry is touching her butt and crying, “Pee! Pee!” We run upstairs to sit her on the toilet so she can imagine herself peeing. She’s stripped down and we’re ready to get her in PJs.

Gretta cries from downstairs, “Mommy, the oil man is in the kitchen!” This sounds creepy, but I know what’s going on — he’s here to give us the oil bill and tell us everything’s up and running.

I turn to the naked Perry. “Hold on a sec; I’ll be right back.”

THIS IS WHERE YOU WENT WRONG, SARAH.

I deal with the oil guy for awhile, then remember Perry and head upstairs.

I notice a terrible smell, which means that Perry pooped. No big deal; I’m changing her anyway. Before I can remember that I LEFT HER NAKED AND ALONE, I see finger-painting on the toilet seat.

Guess what? It’s not paint.

I scream, because why not?

Perry tip-toes in and she has streaks of poop all down her legs, across her belly, on her hands. I scream again and start laughing, because FUCK MY LIFE. Unfortunately, I’m slightly hysterical at this point and I scare Perry. She begins to cry, “Poopy.  Poopy.” Before I touch her, I run into the bedroom from where she came because clearly there’s a mess somewhere and I must find it.

Have you ever searched a hardwood floor for poop? It’s a humbling experience.

I find the poop. It’s on the floor of the girls’ Vidia House. “Vidia House” refers to their pink and purple tent that houses Gretta’s vanity and all their hair/makeup/beauty supplies. (“Vidia” is Gretta’s word for vanity.) Why poop in the place reserved for getting pretty? I don’t know, maybe it’s soothing. Maybe it’s a joke on Gretta.

Most amusing is that when Little Vain Princess Gretta sees the poop inside her beloved, pink and girly Vidia House, she loses her shit (figuratively). “Nooooo!” she cries with all the drama of being Sarah Downs’s daughter implies. “Not my Vidia House!”

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Here is Gretta storming from the desecrated Vidia House.

Meanwhile, Grady comes upstairs. “What is going on?” he asks. I show him the horror that has ensued.

 

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Here’s Grady laughing his ass off.

 

Finally, after taking pictures like any smarty would, I hose off Perry in the bathtub. She stops crying until we return to the scene of the crime and she points to the Vidia House: “Yucky!” she cries. Sure is, kid. Sure. Is.

Gretta is still crying.

Grady is still laughing.

And I am still drinking.

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What a blessing. What a miracle children are.

 

 

 

 

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When Not To Kill Your Child

Here is my middle child, Gretta. She looks like a peach, doesn’t she?

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She is a wild girl with the voice of a 50-year smoker, and I am not exaggerating. Perhaps she’ll be a bass in the high school choir someday.

She loves to get riled up and be aggressive, and I don’t know why I often forget this important fact. Maybe it’s her low, raspy voice that lulls me to temporary amnesia, but I always pay for it in the end.

Yesterday Gretta beautifully colored a wooden Halloween mask in the shape of a bat that covers most of the face except for the eyes. She’d hold it up to her face and scare her younger sister, which was fun and amused them both (win-win). But then it was my turn to be roped into the fun.

Raspy Gretta asked, “Mommy, hold it up to your face and scare me!”

Sure, why not?

I must be amazing at scaring people, because as I held the wooden mask to my face, Gretta screamed and slammed her hand into the mask.

I’m not sure what obscenity I chose at the time, but rest assured it was vulgar and unstoppable.

Once I staunched the bleeding and found myself some ice, I began my Silent Treatment. I’m sorry, but I just don’t like to speak with aggressors.

But Gretta didn’t give a shit, of course. When her victim didn’t respond to the twelve dozen “MOMMY”s, Gretta chose another tactic:

“SARAH.  SARAH.”

I made the mistake of making eye contact with her, and she used this to her advantage. With a parental expression and her smoker’s voice, she said to me, “I think you owe me an apology.”

At this point in my tale I ask you to re-read the title of this post.