Poop. Poop. Poop.

I have a friend who has hated the word poop ever since we were in fifth grade and she moved here from Michigan. Melissa, if you're reading this - yes, I still remember your hatred for the word poop. She has since had two children and had to deal with more than her fair share of poo I'm sure (see Melissa - I called it poo just for you!) - and I got more than my fair share of poop (trust me, this happening deserves the extra "p") last night.

Oh.

My.

So last night the boys were crawling on my legs as I tried to get one minute to eat a snack before taking them on their walk. I thought, heck, we'll give you some juice and head on our walk. But they drank them down right away. Why you little guys are dead thirsty, I thought, and refilled their cups. I knew this was more juice than they normally have in a day, much more, but thought, well, you're thirsty and we need to go. Here we go.

About halfway through our walk they started getting very cranky, and by the time we got home, they were really cranky. Cranky, cranky, cranky. I was losing my mind. John was being patient dad thank God because all I seemed able to say was, "Eek is it just me or are they going nuts? I'm going nuts!"

Some days, I go nuts.

I gave up on getting them to eat and John and I decided we would just feed them a quick tub of fruit.

That's when it all started.

Probably I should have heard many bells going off - fire alarms actually - at this stage, but I didn't. I didn't notice anything was wrong at all, until I looked down.

And saw a puddle.

Of poop.

On the floor.

Under Sully's highchair.

Horrified, I followed the poop puddle trail up the highchair leg, up my son's leg, and into his shorts.

"Ummmm," I said.

By now, you guys know I hate poop. I'm flu queen. I handle puke. I hate, hate, hate, poop. It's beyond gross.

"Well!" John said, "get him in the bath."

I was frozen for a minute. Eeeeeew. Poop!

"Okay," I said and went into action.

I held Sully with as few fingers as possible and ran him back to the bathroom and he kept whining holding his fingers out to me that still had food chunks from the dinner he only played with covering his fingers.

Really kid, I thought, you're choosing THAT to whine about right now? You have a mile of poop running down your leg.

I filled the bath, plopped him in and meanwhile cleaned up his now poopy brother and plopped him in the bath, too.

And then the bath water filled with diarrhea.

And then I watched my children grab the plastic cup and fill it up and pour it out with diarrhea water while I started emptying the tub, telling them, "Eeew! No! Guys - stop it!"

And they giggled.

Sigh.

Then Will decided he might drink some diarrhea water and I moved with what I thought was Olympic speed and grabbed the cup and thought, "2 tickets to the Bahamas are sounding really nice right now." Note to self:
Get rich, call travel agent.

Somehow, an hour later, two more poops later, and a lot of diapers and a LOT of wipes, we had two clean boys ready for bed.

Thank goodness.

This morning on my way to work I called my sister and told her the story.

"You do know you're supposed to dilute the juice, right?" she asked. "Half water, half juice."

"What?! Why don't people tell me these things?" I said.


My poor children. I honestly feel bad. I need a Motherhood book for Dummies. Poop. I tell you.

The end.

Until tomorrow ...