Poop

I just don't know what else to call this entry. I had to make a new label too, which I guess is fine, because it will probably come in handy.

Last night I was making my visual aids for Primary Singing Time (I'm the chorister - my dream calling), and down the hall I heard a door open and shut. My brother-in-law's family has been staying with us for the last month while they close on a house (this Tuesday!), so I figured it was just one of my nietos getting up to go to the bathroom. A couple of minutes later, though, I heard three-year-old Tristan crying.

I went in to the bathroom and he was sitting there sobbing on the toilet. The tell-tale trail of diarrhea and soiled clothing told the rest of the story.

Now, Dan and Hyde had gone to the movies after putting their kids to bed. During the last month, this arrangement has worked well for us - we've traded off staying home while the other couple stays uneventfully with the sleeping kids. I guess my luck just finally ran out.

Now, having a 1-year-old daughter and a sister who is 13 years younger than me, I have plenty of experience taking care of poopy kids. The thing is, though, that I'm not used to boys - specifically, boy parts. And, um, I guess I'm still a little weird about them. That may seem odd, considering that I'm married and pregnant, but...well, boys and girls are different. And it's weird enough to have to clean poop off someone else's kid without that extra bit of awkwardness.

I told Tristan to wait there while I went down and got Steven. "Steven," I said, "Tristan pooped his pants...and he's a boy. And I'm not. I need help." "Oh," said my husband, "I just took out my contacts..." Meaning that at this point, he was pretty much blind. Sigh.

I went back upstairs, took a breath (outside the bathroom), and went to work. I got him cleaned up, rinsed out his clothes (gross), gave him a bath to make sure all crevices were poop-free, and got him in a towel. Then we went into his parents' room to look for clean clothes. Which were nowhere to be found. Every pair of superhero undies I presented were pronounced "Victor's." Finally, I went down to the laundry room where, luckily, I found a smaller pair of Spiderman underwear in the dryer, along with some pajama pants. Poop-free, tear-free, and clothed, Tristan went back to bed, and I went back to finish cleaning up the bathroom.

This story has no moral. Except that when life gives you a diarrheic three-year-old, clean up his poop.