A (True) Poopy Tale

I was in our basement office one recent afternoon, busily checking my e-mail, planning for ballet class with my daughter, and dealing with various other issues, when my three year-old son announced from the floor above: "Mommy, I've got poopy."

Now, I know exactly what that means: "Mother, would you please change my diaper, as the excrement inside is burning my tender flesh?" So, I called back to him: "I'll be right there, Baby." Because that's our routine. He tells me he's pooped, and I go on up and change him.

Except that someone has apparently changed the routine, and forgotten to tell Mommy. Instead of waiting the 30-40 seconds it would have taken me to get upstairs, my son decided to remove the offending receptacle, and slide his poop-encrusted backside down 13 steps to the basement. Thirteen CARPETED steps. "Here, Mommy," he said, offering the filthy thing to me. He was smiling. He was also, as you might imagine, covered in poop from his waist to his ankles. Before I could think about it, I’d swept him up in my arms and headed out the office door … ensuring that I, too, was now covered with poop.

As I exited the office and headed for the stairs to the main floor, I stopped dead. There before me, on thirteen carpeted steps, was a giant skid mark. Right down the center. I looked at my grinning, disgusting little offspring, and regretted for the first time that fateful evening when I advised my husband: “No, I’m sure I’m not ovulating this week.”

Then I headed upstairs, dodging the smelly stuff along the way, and tossed the giggling little poop-machine into the tub. I peeled off my filthy sweater, and went to work on the stairs. My son was laughing at – nay, “mocking” – me, as the phone rang: “Mom! You’ll never guess … poop everywhere … HELP ME!!” She was calm, and agreed to immediately head on over. I hung up the phone, just in time to see my little one draining the water from his tub. He was laughing harder, if that’s possible, and began dancing naked on the bathmat. I wrapped him up, dried him and dressed him. New nappy, new clothes. But still no clean sweater for Mommy.

I SWEAR I didn’t realize that I was, well, basically topless. I was sweating from the cleaning and the warm tub and the fear that if I didn’t work fast, I’d NEVER eradicate the smell and the stain and the …

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. MOM!! I raced for the door. Help had arrived! Except … it wasn't my Mom.

It was the FedEx guy. As soon as the door opened -- I mean as SOON as that cold gust of wind hit my bare chest, I knew I was done for. My mind raced. “Act natural,” I thought. Natural? And then he spoke: "Will you sign for this? Your neighbors aren't home to receive it."

What could I do? I signed. He left. My humiliation was complete.