I Am So Tired of This Crap!

I have decided that any mother who says she has a boring, uneventful life hasn't yet gotten out of bed for the day! Yes, some days are monotonous; some are lonely; some days even feel like Groundhog Day, where we deal with the same fights, spills, and chores as the day before. BUT, I am here to tell you, if you are a mother, there is plenty to record in a journal and pass on to posterity--it just may not all be uplifting and fabulous. Here's an example.

Remember my prayers on potty-training? Remember how I wrote that things were going so much better because my two-year-old was starting to poop on the potty? Well, I wasn't lying or exaggerating--things did start falling into place--until this past week, that is! Since then, I have cleaned up more poop than in the previous two months of potty training combined. And I just have to say, I am tired of crap--literally. Let me explain.

It all started a week ago when my three-year-old told me there was a horrible smell at the end of the hallway. Well, that is never good news, so I hurried (reluctantly hurried, that is) down the hallway, took a deep breath, and threw open my two-year-old's door. I thought he had been asleep for the past half hour; instead, he had pooped in his underwear, and then--here's the best part--he had tried to clean up the mess himself. Can you invision the scene I faced? A big glob of poop was in the garbage can (I couldn't help but think what a responsible mess maker he was to have at least put the poop in a reasonable waste receptacle), poop was spread all along his bed rail, and of course, poop was matted down his legs and feet, as well as all over his hands and in his fingernails. But wait--that's not all--this dear child, in an effort to do an efficient cleaning job, was rubbing poop into the carpet with a wet wipe--in three different places.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to stamp my feet and throw my hands in the air (okay, so I did stamp my foot and throw my arms in the air). When was this going to end? Was it going to end? I mean, we were past this point, weren't we?

Apparently not.

The good news is, I got through it. Two days and four carpet scrubbings later, the smell was gone and the carpet was cleaner in those spots than anywhere else in the house. You'd think I would have cleaned up my last lot of poop. That's where you'd be wrong.

Less than a week later, I had a new "first" as a mother, and of course, that four letter word--poop-was involved. We had spent a few days in Cokeville with Grandma and Grandpa, and I was working to do the weekly laundry and get caught up on things. I put a load of whites in and went about my other chores. A couple of hours later (I'm not real good at keeping up with the washer), I returned to the laundry room and nearly passed out at the horrible stench. I sniffed and sniffed everywhere trying to figure out the source of the smell (brave, I know) and finally opened the washer lid, and jackpot! It smelled so bad. It didn't make sense to me, but I decided to simply put more soap in, extra fabric softener to drown out the bad smell, and rewash the load.

A few hours later, feeling a lot less courageous, I sent my nine-year-old in to check out the smell. I opened the door and pushed her inside. She came right back out, reporting the laundry room smelled both good and bad--mostly bad. "It smells like poop," she said. "That's ridiculous," I countered. But then I began to wonder. . .

I opened the washer again to find the same horrible stench, this time even worse than before, and I began taking out each article of clothing, one by one to figure out the source of the smell. About halfway through the load I noticed signs of smeared poop on a towel and some other clothes. I couldn't believe it! How could poop have possibly gotten on all of these clothes?

There are times when you simply don't want to know the answer to your own questions. This definitely qualified as one of those times! A few articles of clothing later, I found the offender. I lifted a pair of Boston's underwear and found a huge lump of poop inside. Suddenly I realized I had washed all of our white clothing with poop--not once, but twice!

How could this happen? I was mortified, frustrated, and pretty much down right mad. I had cleaned up enough poop for a lifetime, let alone one week. It was then I remembered my nine-year-old telling me Boston had gone poop all by himself the other night while in her care. It had sounded like a suspicious story to me since he has a hard time getting his pants down all by himself, but I was more than ready to hear and believe a happy story about our potty training progress. I had inspected the bathroom thoroughly when I had returned a short time later and found nothing, so I was feeling pretty thrilled that Boston was making such great headway. Standing in the laundry room, holding the offensive underwear, it all became very clear to me that I had been naieve once again. I was pretty sure Boston had pooped in his pants, then put them in the dirty clothes basket in an effort to clean up (if nothing else, I sure have taught that boy how to clean up after himself), and that's how they made their way into my washer.

I scrubbed my washer, then rewashed my whites for the THIRD time, adding even more detergent and fabric softener, threw away the underwear, washed and sanitized my poopy hands once again, and decided it's a darn good thing Boston is my last child. I'm not sure I could survive the perils of potty training again. Even my sister is exhausted from all my experiences (which is extremely unfortunate considering she has a child to potty train in the next six months).

All I can say is, if you happen to be going through this wonderful adventure, I feel your pain. And if you still have children to potty train, my advice is this: stock up on hand sanitizer, carpet cleaner, and, most importantly, treats--not for the child, but for you for every time you clean up a mess!

And be prepared to deal with all the crap that goes with this glorified job--Best of luck!!!