The Shit Incident

When I was somewhere around 8 years old, I remember an incident where I was outside playing with some friends during one of my weekend visits at my Dad’s house. I can’t recall exactly what I was doing, but I was a typical kid who wasn’t going to let something as unimportant as using the bathroom facilities interrupt my play time. Remember that? Holding it as long as you could until it was so unbearable you had about 1.3 seconds to make it to the toilet.

This time, 1.3 seconds wasn’t long enough to make it, and it wasn’t a #1.

About midway to the front door, the shit literally hit the fan (ok, so not literally a fan, but you know what I’m getting at), and by the time I reached the toilet, my strawberry shortcake underpants weren’t white anymore.

Now that I have kids of my own, the waiting-until-the-last-possible-moment-to-go-to-the-bathroom phase is all too apparent. My daughter is nine and she still does it, so imagine my excitement that when she outgrows it, the next child will be right in the middle of it.  But after the ‘shit-incident’ the other weekend, anything is better than having a child in diapers.

While we were in Children’s Hospital with the little one, he didn’t shit for a week. He wasn’t eating either, so this wasn’t a huge cause of concern, but once he was finally eating ‘real’ food and back at home, it was time to alleviate some of that pressure and load him up on laxatives.

*note* when loading your child up on laxatives be sure to be prepared at all times for a ‘shit-incident’.

Easter dinner with my in-laws side of the family is always a lavish affair. My husband’s family is a close one, so even though we were in a mansion space was tight. We had only been home for a few days, but little Ry was doing so well we decided we would go. He still hadn’t shit, but we just thought that the time would come and we wouldn’t worry too much about it since he wasn’t irritable or anything so it must not have been bothering him. He had a teeny poop that morning, so we thought we were good.

Holy shit balls, we were wrong.

And no, not balls… there wasn’t any shit balls involved. IT WAS A MASSIVE.LAKE.OF.SHIT.OATMEAL.

While we were sitting at dinner, E says to me that Ry smelled a little… errr… ‘shitty’, and perhaps the time had come for our little man to expel and we should probably change him. (Read: I’m not changing him, YOU change him). I was a little elated because who doesn’t want to throw a party when their baby shits?

I went to go lift him out of the high chair and stopped midway. This wasn’t just a full diaper y’all. Out of the corner of my eye I spot shit on the side of my little man’s pants. Then, upon closer inspection, I saw shit running down his leg. And upon even further inspection, I saw shit running down the goddamn highchair. This all happened in a matter of a millisecond.

And shockingly enough, no one noticed. Which is a miracle in itself really, but the best case scenario because I am guessing the smell and sight of shit isn’t appetizing? Just a guess though. Wild stab in the dark.

So without grossing any of you out even further, I will wrap up the story with point form:

1. He was changed on garbage bags
2. he needed a bath
3. I ended up throwing the clothes out.

End of ‘shit incident’.

I won’t go into detail about how I had shit all the way up my arms. Cause that’s not very nice.