When Fun Turns to Terror

Every once in awhile, we have moments of great tragedy that transcend what we have witnessed before.  Today was not that day for me.  However, what should have been a fun time, quickly took a turn for the worse.

 

I was the prescribed bath giver for my 2 and 3 year old.  Is “bath giver” really the term we should be using?  Isn’t there something else that would work?  Anyway, I decided tonight we should have a little fun with the bath time festivities.

 

Normally, my wife has a strict anti-splash policy.  I, however, quickly abandoned that when I discovered we had one of those foamy splash balls made for water.  So while doing baths, we took turns chucking it at each other.  The boys, who normally don’t get to splash daddy, were having a blast.  I was having fun and getting soaked.  The bathroom was quickly turning into a slippery mess.

Everything took a quick and devastating turn when, upon going to retrieve the ball from the bathtub, made a startling discovery.  My two year old, who had been cackling like a pure maniac the whole time, had in fact… pooped in the tub.

 

Ok, I know what you’re saying right now.  “Really Mark?  Really???”  Yes, it is knowledge that I have to share with you.  Why is this suck a “terror” filled moment?  Most people know that I love poop jokes and just the word itself.  However, the actual substance terrifies me for unknown reasons.  To further show you how warped my mind is, I will not breath through my nose the entire time I change a diaper.  I refuse to, I just will not do it.  I don’t want those poop particles wafting there.  Besides, with the smell comes the realization of what I’m dealing with.

 

So there we are, poop suddenly precipitating throughout the tub like a virtual “shit storm”.  The yellow and brown quickly pervading the vicinity.  I turned to my 3 year old and told him to hurriedly evacuate.  He was stunned, mortified, unable to move due to the horrible conditions he now found himself in.  Slowly, the haze swept away and he came to, hurriedly scampering out as I yelled for my wife.  I didn’t say what it was, I just stated that it was an emergency. 

I would like to think my inner child had the same expression during our catastrophe.

My wife was on the phone as I explained just how urgent it was.  I made sure to grab a towel for my 3 year old to keep him warm.  I did, however, leave the poor 2 year old in the middle of the murky waters.  My mind was racing (as fast a car with 0.5 horsepower can go) and trying to figure out what the hell I should do with this boy.  Should I hose him off like they do with HVAC suits?  Should I somehow rinse his feet in the toilet?  What if, and I prayed not, he had to poop some more?  I couldn’t act, I was locking up.

 

My wife then pointed out that the 2 year old was out of the bath tub and I needed to get him a towel and she would take care of him.  That sounded like a plan that I was capable of accomplishing.  My three year old was very much disgusted, but my 2 year old utterly confused.  He didn’t even realize that he has done such a dastardly deed.

 

The next part of the operation was cleaning the tub.  My lovely wife already knew that she was in for the long haul on that one.  I tried to piece my thoughts together though as I had no clear strategy in place for when events of this particular magnitude occurred.  Should I use a strainer of some sort to clean the tub?  What the hell would I do with the toys that had been sullied by this act?  Was there some sort of emergency poop bucket to fish it all out?  Should we let it all drain and collect the poop from the drain?  Could I alter the molecular formula of the poop to instead become wooden?  I had no answers, only questions.

We too shall heal.  Worry not about us, but how you can prevent bathtub poopings.

One sad fact is, I still have no idea how my wife cleaned the tub.  Haven’t the foggiest.  Quite frankly, I don’t even have the guts to ask her.  A man can only see so much in his lifetime before he becomes desensitized to the whole damned process.  So as I resigned myself to getting the boys to sleep, I read a couple of stories to my 3 year old.  We came to a sense of healing him and I.  To make light of the tragedy, we substituted the word poop into the books we read as much as possible.  Ah hell, we probably would have done that regardless.  But I’m probably going to burn those toys.

Technorati Tags: poop,fear,bathtub,tragedy,kids,children,absolute terror

Wolves Claim: Kids, They're What's for Dinner

I told my 3 year old son about the story of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf".  He had been lying to us about everything recently, so I thought that I could turn this into a story that fit the best.  When telling this story, always make sure the kid actually knows that the wolf is a dangerous creature.  That's the first part.

This is what happened to the Deer who cried "oh crap, wolves, gotta run into a car!"

A little bit later I caught my son in a lie again.  When I asked him what he learned from the story I told him earlier, he simply stated "that the wolf ate the boy."  Well, yeah, sure did.  I tried to make this story seem semi-horrific.  Nobody wants to be eaten by a wolf.  So I asked him why he got eaten by the wolf and it became apparent that it just didn't click in that the boy was lying and nobody believed him when he actually needed help.

I think Disney is to blame for some of this.  Now days, creatures like wolves are portrayed as cute, cuddly, and most of all, talkative.  But in reality, they can be vicious predators and roam in packs.  Oh my gosh, I just described my kids.  No wonder they weren't scared by this analogy.  Um... nevermind.