Too Many Poos, Mama Lose?

Yesterday, my day started off with a lot of shit.  Literally.  Loads of it.

My husband left for work, not uncommon... but, through the front door, a tad uncommon...

On his way out the door he yelled out, "oh by the way- there's a surprise for you in the mudroom."

Now, you might be thinking, awwww- he got you flowers.  Ha.

It was shit.  Again, literally.

Dog #2, the larger of our two dogs, shat allllllll over my lovely oriental runner.  And, I am not exaggerating with the world allllllll.  I still cannot comprehend how he physically had that much in him.  It was seriously half of his body weight.  It took me two bags to pick up the 1/3 of what was grabbable.  And, he's a "poop walker".  You know- the dogs that drop a line of crap a mile long so you look like a 120-year-old man when you are on walks; bent over for an hour, making sure that you get all of the many, many "drops".  I hate "poop walkers".  Just stay in one place and poop, for the love!

After picking up the grabbables, I re-hold my breath (as to not pass out from the terrible fumes) and reenter the mudroom, only to drag my beautiful rug outside onto the driveway.  Oops!  I apparently missed a nugget, I notice as it goes rolling down the rug and over my hand, onto the sidewalk.  Insert pathetic, very sad, very disgusted face here.  Shaking my head and taking a deep breath of non-dog-ass-polluted air, I hose off the remaining 2/3 of poo.  When the rug appears to look like an actual rug again and less like an abused pee pad, I start to hose off of the driveway.  Oh- don't mind me neighbors!  Just shooting the shit... with my hose.  Ugh.  Not the way to start my day.

After having my dog out, all day, to "finish his business"  I soon realize that his business is not going to be finished anytime soon.  I fetch him some Imodium and tie him up to a tree.  (In the shade, with water, don't freak out, people.)

Dog #2.  Again, don't freak out!  This is not real poop.
It is just a poop hide a key, that Dog #2 really enjoyed.

I will spare you the details of what continued throughout the day with Dog #2; but, let's just say it involved a panicked call to the vet and coming very close to vomiting all over my yard approximately 14 times.

I eventually had enough.  After wasting several hours walking around behind (funny, not funny) my dog, investigating his poops and derrière (Sherlock Holmes was jealous?), I realized that I have a son and husband who need me.  So they can eat.  And, have diapers.  I desperately need to go to the grocery store.  It's ummm... been awhile.  Thirty minutes after finally corralling my kid (who was trying to ride three bikes at the same time, whilst drinking his apple juice) into the car, we get all buckled in and... put the keys in the ignition.  (Not hot and fresh out the kitchen, mama got her some rolls on that body, but not the ones ev'ry man wishin') (<-- please ignore previous (..) if you are not between the ages of 20 and 45, give or take.)


My car will not start.  Mind you, my car is not very old.  I don't think I have ever had an issue with it not starting?  But, today- of course.  Today it taunts me.

I call my husband, explaining that it was of vital importance that he come jump my car before my head explodes, probably resulting in something resembling poop, that he will have to clean up.

An hour later he arrives.  (Yes, he works across the street from our neighborhood, but you know- meetings?)*

I finally make it to the grocery store.  Along with the rest of the damn town because it is 5:00pm.  (One advantage of staying at home with my son is being able to go to the store on off-hours, when it is more likely to resemble a ghost town and there are no lines [of argumentative couponers and percise check writers] to wait in.  Anywho.)

We finally make it home and my son does not stop talking about the watermelon we just bought, so I give in and cut it open.  (Watermelon is a food I dread actually dealing with.  I love it, but it is impossible not to have its sweet red juice everywhere or have at least half of the melon end up the ground.  In dog hair.)  I cut him a slice, strip him down to his diaper and send him and his cute little, diaper-covered-tush outside.

I tell you this part to point out that he did have a diaper on.  That was all that was gracing his body; but, it was a diaper, on his butt, serving its purpose.

A little later a friend comes in the door laughing saying that he is running around outside, completely naked.

This is not too uncommon, but I go outside to try and lock it up before he hurts his... well, you know.

Kid: "Mama!"

Me: "Yes, dear?"  (Ok, I added the dear to make me look like a nicer person.  It was more like, "WHAT?!?")

Kid: "I got poo poo on me!"

Me: "(#@$%$$#%$#$%#) What?!?!  ($#$^&&%^$#$@#$) Where???  How???"

Kid: "It is doggy poopy."  And, he points to the driveway.

Me: "But, how?"  (How could this be?  I had been so diligent!)  "Ok, stay there and I will grab some wipes." (#$%**#$%#$)

I return with wipes and Kid comes over to the front steps and points to the poop on his leg.  Then he arches his back, whips his little arms back in the air and pisses on the front steps!

Me: "($@#%*&%@#$) What in the world are you doing???  You don't pee there!"

Kid: "Daddy pees outside."

Me: "Well, he should not; but, I know that he does not pee on the front steps to our house!"  (Well, at least one can hope so.)  "Now come here so I can wipe the dog poop of you off."

Kid turns around.

There is a terd trapped in-between his butt cheeks!!!

Me: "(#$&@%#) Did you poop!??!  You said it was doggy poopy!  Is the poop all over you perhaps a decendant from the one that is trapped in your butt cheeks?"

Kid: "Oh."

Kid:  Laughing.  "Dat funny."

Me: Definitely not laughing.  "Ohhhh, no.  That is sooooo not funny."**

Needless to say, kid got carried into the shower.  I tried not to cry and scream too much.  I washed him, dried him and left him inside so I could go wash the newest poop (from my son's butt) off of the driveway.   Freaking really?  Is this what my life is?  Cleaning up rounds of shit off the driveway?

I came back in, ignored my child who was stuck on repeat saying, "you happy now, Mommy?  You happy now, Mommy?" and poured a very large glass of wine.  No, Mommy was far from happy.  Far, far, far from happy.

I doused (yes, doused) my throat with some wine and sat down for a second to breath in the (finally) non-poop smelling air, trying to forget what I oddly was just forced to encounter in one day.

I know other people are having even worse days.  But, I was flat out pooped.

Tomorrow is another day (hopefully less full of shit),

*I would like to thank my husband for showing up and magically starting my car!  (And, closing the hood for me, because I find that intimidating...)

**That night in bed, Kid proceeded to tell Daddy about pooping in the driveway.  Daddy tried to hold it together, and tell him it was in fact, not funny.  But, when he asked if it was a "wittle bit funny?", with a healthy dose of raised eyebrows and creepy smile, Daddy did think it was funny, just a wittle bit.


Driving Mr. Meat

I recently made the trip home to Georgia to visit my family.  Yup, just me and my crazy, super energetic toddler.  (We can discuss my bravery later.)

I soon remembered why my dear son is not the best traveling companion:

A- He does not stop eating.
B- He does not stop talking. 

My Kid Is a Vacuum

Those that know my son, also know he eats non-stop.  It is to the point of ridiculous.  I would have thought that he had a tape worm, except his pooping is equivalent to his food intake.  You name it- he will eat it.  Seriously though, if you mention food around him - be prepared to be berated until you present him with said food.  Especially meat.  Of any form.

*This is a video, that may not work on a phone for whatever reason.
Hope you can view on a computer!

I've learned to be prepared with an arsenol of food on road trips (even if it is the .3 mile trip to the grocery store).  It all sits in the passenger seat beside me, ready for me to launch it over my shoulder towards his car seat.

On the way out of town, for some reason I prematurely mention that we are going to go through Chick-fil-a and you would think he just made out with Dora the Explorer.  I fail to mention that it is not the one close to our house, but the one a hour and half away.  He is confused by this and asks approximately 1 million times if we are there yet; but, once he sees the glorious red glowing sign- he's okay with the wait.  He proceeds to eat 6 nuggets and a large order of fries, even though he has been eating constantly for the past 1.5 hours.

An example from another trip of him divulging in some chicken wings.
Because that is road trip food.

My Kid Cannot Zip It

He used to fall asleep pretty soon into a trip, but now he just talks.  And, talks.  And, taaaaalks.

He points out every water tower, with an excited squeal of: "Ooooh- watah towah!"
Followed by: "What in dat towah, Mommy?"
Me: "What do you think?"
Him, thinking for a minute: "Watah!"
(We've got a rocket scientist on our hands, folks!)

Every single truck that drives by: "Ooooh- wook at dat twuck!  What type of twuck is dat?"
Me: "No clue."
Him, "Dat is a dump twuck Momma."
Me: "Oh, ok."
Him: "But what it dooooo?"
Me: Banging my head on the steering wheel.

He also likes to ask what every single person that we know is doing, where they are at that moment, if they are happy or not, when he will see them again...  This leads to the unfortunate confession by me (that I had worked so hard to make him believe thus far in life): Momma does not know everything.  Sigh.  (I do understand why this confuses him.)

Throughout the trip he repeats 1000 times, "Mommy, I not tired."  Really?  Cool.  I didn't ask. 

Also famous, "Mommy, I no go to sleep. I stay wake da whole time."  Lord, please let him be lying. 

2.5 Hours into the 5+ hour trip... it finally gets quiet.  (Insert angelic choir singing "Hallelujah" here). Naturally, it is literally 3 exits before we get to the one stop I look forward to- Starbucks.  Fret not though, they have a drive thru (God bless America).

Knowing I will loose my shit if my ordering awakes him, I pull a few feet away from the ordering box (?) and lean out the window as far as I can.  Yes, I look like a total moron, but I'll be damned if I get the crazy cracked-out-on-caffeine barista that cranks up the volume so that New York can hear him and his overly enthusiastic and annoyingly fake greeting.  I loudly whisper my order and somehow successfully get out of there with my kid still asleep.  I hop back onto I-20 and put it in cruise control.

I try focus on a positive aspect in this situation and I soon realize that I can at least be glad that there is only one kid in my car right now.  Then, I suddenly get anxiety for all those people out there with multiple kids; and, a headache from trying to grasp how you do a road trip with more than one child.  I just don't understand.  Medication?  For both you and the kids?

Realizing I am not yet ready for another kid to accompany me on road trips, I start channeling The Little Engine That Could, and my mantra becomes- "I will survive this trip... I will survive this trip... I will survive this trip..."  As I repeat this over and over again, it obviously evolves into me "singing" an impromptu silent rendition of "I Will Survive".


No, literally.  Traffic.  It slowly comes to a freaking stop.  Do you know what happens when you go from 80 (I mean 70, Mom) to 0 in a German made vehicle?  The loud noise of the road, that had been amply filling your car and usually works nicely as a sound machine for your kid, also stops.  Thus, the living creature in the carseat wakes up. 

Do you know what happens when your kid wakes up after only a 20 minute nap to find himself locked in a car seat?  All hell breaks loose.  That's what. 

So, we both have ourselves a little crying fit until traffic starts moving again.  With several onlookers staring at our car with general concern, I just point to the wailing child in the back and then the stopped cars in front of me.  They know.

After no additional napping, and what seems like an eternity, we eventually make it to our destination: Nana and Pete's house.  (Yes, "Pete" is my Dad's chosen grandfather name for my son to call him.  No, it has nothing to do whatsoever with his actual name.  My mom mentioned once that she knew a Peter that went by Pete for his grandfather name and there you have it- that is what my father also chose.  Yes, we explained to him that really did not make any sense.  I mainly think he made it stick to drive my mom crazy.  And yes, he is also pretty weird.)

Anywho- I say 'hi' to my parents and immediately find the wine.  I chug, I mean sip a little while I watch my son hug his grandparents with an excited, "Nana! Peeeeeete!" squeal; and, my wine-stained lips slowly turn into a smile.  I guess that makes the terrible act of making the trip worth it?

At least Nana knows me well enough to buy the box of wine.