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.

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