[Author’s Note #1: This story is the natural sequel to Poop Goes *IN* the Potty, and, as was the case in that tale, bowel movements feature heavily in this story. Consider yourself forewarned.]
[Author’s Note #2: After months of wondering if Bo would ever talk, our firstborn’s vocabulary has finally entered its Cambrian explosion. However, while his breadth of expressive language has improved, his articulation has not. (At least, not much.) For clarity, I will render a translation of his speech in curly brackets following each toddlerism.]
[Author’s Note #3: This story is about events that occurred on June 26th, which is admittedly a while ago. I wrote about half of this piece before Independence Day, then set it aside to finish knitting a baby blanket and then to write A Stinky Situation. Some of Bo’s language and mannerisms have changed since the events of this tale, but he is rendered herein as he was in late June.]
Thankfully, in the two-ish weeks between the events in this post and the events in Poop Goes *IN* the Potty, Borealis has developed an improved — though still imperfect — ability to discern the approach of (as my father would say) “his window of poop-ability“. Most recently, he has decided that he can only poop on the potty in front of our house, which I’m sure our neighbors really appreciate.
Furthermore, Bo’s learning curve has prompted us to prolong the amount of time he spends sans-bottoms. For a while, this meant “completely naked”, but eventually, people started giving our perpetual streaker odd looks. Bo’s toddler-sized shirts, which conceal little below his waist, resulted in the same persistent immodesty.
Our solution? We now dress Bo almost exclusively in Taylor’s old t-shirts, which allow Bo to go commando more discreetly. Problematically, though, the deep-v necklines slide right over Bo’s thin shoulders if left unaltered, so we gather the extra fabric in a back ponytail. The resulting floor-length, high-necked white dresses make my son appear as though he’s always about to go play Gabriel in a low-budget Christmas pageant.
Our newly optimized outdoor-potty-and-long-t-shirt setup has dramatically reduced the number of Bo’s accidents, although I suspect that his [overly] frantic cries of “ow-sigh pah-ee!” {“outside potty”} are not always sincere. (For instance, he sometimes pops a squat for all of three seconds before running off to antagonize my struggling flower garden.)
Nevertheless, we are drawing ever closer to the [admittedly distant] day when I will be liberated from my duties with Bo’s… doodies. (Pardon the pun.)
Bo’s transition into potty autonomy — pottonomy, if you will — has revived my latent knowledge that one day, in the even more distant future, I’ll likely be completely disentangled from all of Bo’s daily habits: bedtime, meal time, laundry time, bath time, etc.
Granted, none of those routines bothers me as much as potty time does — at least, not usually. But, some days are uniquely challenging.
Most mornings, Bo yells, “Poo!” before running to the potty and producing just that. Since he’s generally a morning pooper, the entire day is less stressful once Bowel Movement #1 has made its appearance.
Thankfully, such was the case on the day of this tale. Bo had had an accident-free morning, and I was hoping to extend our winning streak into the afternoon. However, as I wrangled my son into his high chair for lunch, I caught a whiff of something that smelled a lot like “dashed hopes”.
“Did you poop in your shorts!?” I accused.
Bo gave me a startled look that communicated, No, and also I’m not wearing shorts? — which was, admittedly, accurate. Nevertheless, I pulled him back up to standing and sniffed his derrière, which confirmed that Bo had not, in fact, pooped in the shorts he wasn’t wearing.
I replaced Bo in his seat, handed him a bowl of yogurt and a spoon, and then crouched to smell my dog’s rear end. No dice. Finally, I checked Australis’s bottom. Bingo — poop located.
[Note: If you have the impression that a major part of my maternal duties is sniffing butts… then you have the correct impression.]
I carried her into the bedroom and opened her cloth diaper — an all-in-one with two absorbent flaps.
[Note: If — as I was — you’re unfamiliar with the different types of cloth diapers, this infographic from Thinking About Cloth Diapers is pretty good.]
So, this is a good time to discuss diapers. (Since, you know, we’ve already discussed butts.) I used exclusively disposable diapers with Borealis, but I picked up two dozen Rumparooz one size pocket cloth diapers off Craigslist when Australis was a couple months old… and then proceeded to use them in secret.
Why the secrecy? The short answer is, I’ve been a vocal opponent of cloth diapers for years. From an environmental perspective, they’re often more detrimental than disposable diapers, for twice (or more) the work. This is especially true in Colorado, where our near-constant drought renders cloth diapers especially ecologically deleterious.
But, there’s no arguing that, economically, cloth diapers are superior to disposable — especially if they’re purchased secondhand. [Note: If you think it’s weird to buy used diapers, just remember that a “new” cloth diaper becomes a “used” cloth diaper after only one poop. It’s not that weird. Save money and just buy used.]
Anyway, besides the whole bleeding-our-rivers-dry thing, cloth diapers have actually been a good fit for me. I’m not squeamish (about poop, at least), and I love saving money. And, even better, I recently got some free cloth diapers from Nextdoor. I sold most of my new acquisitions on eBay (again, it’s not that weird), but I kept two BumGenius all-in-ones… which brings us back to the tale at hand.
Upon opening the cute equation-patterned all-in-one, I discovered that it was shockingly full of noxious excrement. It was no wonder that I had been able to smell the dookie from so far away.
As soon as she was free of her diaper, Australis started to flail in a desperate bid for freedom.
“Staaaaaahp,” I grumbled.
With one hand, I attempted to keep Australis atop the changing table without also smearing her poopie butt on the changing pad, and with the other hand, I carefully moved the open diaper to the floor.
Except, not carefully enough. As I set down the diaper, one of the absorbent flaps… flopped. Poop splattered onto the floor, and I immediately resolved to discontinue use of the all-in-ones. [Note: I have since sold said all-in-ones on eBay. Still not that weird.]
I was temporarily paralyzed by mutually exclusive desires to either: 1) spend the rest of the day crying in bed, or 2) drop everything and Lysol the fecal matter off my floor. But, I still had a soiled baby to clean, and she wasn’t going to clean herself.
A few minutes later, I returned to the dining room with a freshly-diapered — but otherwise naked — Australis. After a few seconds of contemplation, I chose to strap her into her highchair — you know, for safe-keeping. I scattered a few low-choking-risk raspberries onto her tray, then returned to deal with the dirty diaper.
The biggest difference between disposable diapers and cloth diapers is, of course, where the poop normally ends up: landfill or sewage. Actually, though, it’s a little-known fact that solids from disposable diapers should be flushed down the toilet, too. This extra (rather inconvenient) step is advised for the sake of our landfills, which are ill-equipped to facilitate the degradation of raw sewage — at least, ill-equipped compared to wastewater treatment plants.
I only started flushing Bo’s disposable diaper doo-doos about a month before he ditched daytime diapers altogether, but I was pleasantly surprised by the ease with which his poop peeled off of the diaper and —plop!— landed harmlessly in the toilet. A side benefit of this “proper” poop disposal was that Bo’s Diaper Genie stopped smelling like old roadkill. (Honestly, I’m so grossed out that I used to let room-temperature turds hang out in my kid’s nursery.)
Anyway. My point here is not that people ought to flush the solids from disposable diapers. (Although, of course, that argument could be made.) My point is actually that cloth diapers undergo the same process, but with higher stakes. If I miss cleaning some poop from a disposable diaper, that poop goes into one of our Diaper Genies and eventually into a landfill. It bothers me a little, but not that much. However, if I miss cleaning some poop from a cloth diaper, that poop goes into my washing machine, clogs its filter, and eventually results in the high-ick scenario described in Poop Goes *IN* the Potty.
And still, even with such high stakes, I have yet to figure out how to pre-clean a cloth diaper without getting fecal matter all over my bathroom. Like most cloth diaper users, I have a spray nozzle attachment on my toilet. But, unlike (I assume) most cloth diaper users, my system is pretty much spray-as-much-as-necessary-and-then-Lysol-all-the-splatter. (If you ever use this approach, my best advise is this: close your mouth first.)
Thus, this dirty diaper was cleaned like all the rest: badly, with lots of ricochet. Afterward, I half-attempted to squeeze out the sopping-wet cloth before tossing it into our bathroom wet bag — because apparently, even a “waterproof” bag isn’t *that* waterproof.
I ducked back into the kitchen to grab the Lysol and make sure my kids were both still alive. (They were.) I also tore off a few paper towels, then quickly returned to my room to disinfect the smeared excrement left behind by the delinquent cloth diaper. In my mind, the only thing worse than poop getting on my floor is poop getting on my foot because I forgot that it was on the floor.
Next, I gave my bathroom the same treatment — a liberal spritzing of Lysol, followed by a sloppy wipe-down. I tossed the paper towels in the bathroom trash and dashed back to the kitchen as Bo started to yell something.
It wasn’t immediately apparent what my son was calling, so as I washed my hands, I shouted back, “I’m coming! Almost done! I’ll be right there!” (That’s a universally-applicable response, right?)
Just as I turned off the water, Bo’s shrieks resolved into a single word: “Pee!”
With a sinking feeling that could best be described as “dashed hopes”, I ran to Bo’s highchair. “Hold it in! Don’t pee yet!”
But alas, I was too late. Bo stood stricken in a puddle of his own urine. At least pee is sterile.
“Oh buddy, that’s not good! Where is pee-pee supposed to go?”
“Pah-ee.” {“Potty.”}
“Yes, in the potty.” I hefted Bo out of his highchair and carried him to the living room potty. “Go pee-pee on the potty.”
Bo obliging squeezed out three drops of pee, then rose to his feet. “Ah duhn.” {“All done.”}
I suddenly noticed that the bottom of Bo’s t-shirt gown was wet with what had to be urine. I sighed, then pulled it up over his head. “I’m sorry buddy, that was really Mommy’s fault. I know you were trying to tell me.”
I used the already-damp t-shirt to soak up the rest of the highchair pee, then tossed the shirt in the empty washing machine. No use in wasting a clean rag.
Back in the living room, Bo had left the potty and was heading for the front door.
“Borealis, do not go outside!” I warned.
My son glanced back at me, narrowed his eyes, and wrenched open the mudroom door. A second later, I heard a loud thud! as he connected with the [locked] screen door.
I sighed, then went to retrieve my wayward son. “Borealis, I told you not to go outside, and you didn’t listen to me. That’s naughty. I still have to clean off your sister, so we can’t go out front right now. Do you want to go in the backyard instead?”
“Fruh yuh!” {“Front yard!”}
“Buddy, I can’t watch you in the front right now. It’s the backyard or nothing.”
Borealis pouted dramatically. “Fruh yuh!” And with that, he burst into a quintessential toddler tantrum.
I sighed again. “Bo, I told you that you can go in the backyard, but if you’re just going to whine, then you’ll be going to a timeout instead. Do you want a time out?”
Bo stuck his thumb in his mouth and nodded, which was not exactly the result I was going for. I clarified, “You want a timeout?”
“Ti-uh.” {“Timeout.”}
“Um, ok,” I conceded. I hadn’t really expected my rhetorical question to be taken so seriously, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a parent, it’s to hold to my word.
I walked Bo to his crib, which has recently lost a side and gained a new name: “big boy bed”. Bo dutifully climbed onto his bed, then looked up at me expectantly.
“You have to stay here for one minute,” I ordered.
”Ai-kai.”
“What?”
“Ai-kai.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Ai-kai.”
“Are you saying Al Qaeda?”
“Aiiiii kaiiiii.”
“Wait — are you saying ok!?”
<nods> “Ai kai.” {“Ok.”}
I smothered my laughter, since I was still [nominally] disciplining my child. “Yes. Anyway. Like I was saying, you have to stay here for one minute.”
I left Bo’s room and called for our Echo Dot to start a sixty-second timer. During those seconds, I finally returned to Australis, whose raspberries had long since disappeared. I think she might have even eaten some of them.
I had just hefted a “clean” Australis into my arms when the alarm went off. I raced back to Bo’s room and found him climbing off his bed.
What? his expression seemed to say. The timer went off.
I didn’t really know what to say to that, so I just growled. (Effective parenting, I know.) Bo walked past us and right back to the front door.
[Note: In case you’re wondering, we’ve found that putting *Blankey* in timeout is a much more effective method of discipline than is putting Bo in timeout. The pseudo-hostage situation consistently does a better job of stirring Bo to obedient action.]
I sighed, then followed Bo back to the site of our recent altercation. Even though I now had Australis in hand, I was unwilling to back down from my earlier prohibition. “Bo,” I preempted. “You cannot go in the front yard. You can only go in the backyard right now.”
Bo blinked at me innocently. “Bah yuh.” {“Backyard.”}
I snorted. Of course it would be just that simple the second time around. “Ok bud, let’s get your shoes on, and then you can go outside in the backyard.”
Bo obediently walked to the backdoor and started slipping on a shoe onto his left foot —
“Wrong foot.”
— then shoved the shoe onto his right foot instead. I jiggled the lock until it disengaged, then reminded Bo, “Blankey stays inside,” as he pushed outside. He dropped the blanket at the threshold and ran off into the dead expanse of our backyard.
“Yell if you want back in!” I called after him. He grunted in acknowledgement.
Shifting Australis on my hip, I looked down at Blankey. As usual, it was filthy. Seemingly, it doesn’t matter how often I wash it; since the long blanket is Bo’s near-ubiquitous companion, its typical state falls somewhere between ew-I-don’t-want-to-touch-that-thing and ew-I-don’t-want-my-kid-to-touch-that-thing.
Today, its condition definitely favored the latter. I glanced up to make sure that Bo was out of sight, then tossed the blanket into the washer drum, added the laundry from our “whites” hamper, poured bleach up to the “Max Fill” line, and started the quick wash cycle. If luck was on my side, Bo would never even know that Blankey had been washed.
Of course, luck was not on my side. Within five minutes, Bo was banging on the back door.
“Ah duh!” {“All done!”}
As I let him in, I thought, Maybe he won’t notice that Blankey is missing?
My son looked around, noted his blanket’s conspicuous absence, and asked, “Bay-key?” {“Blankey?”}
Well, so much for that. I plastered on a smile and chirped, “Blankey is… taking a bath!”
Bo dashed to the washing machine. Sure enough, Blankey’s grey acrylic appeared for a moment through the bleachy suds. (It’s a mostly color-fast yarn.)
“Bay-key!”
I glanced at the timer, which is really just a shot in the dark. “Twenty-one minutes?”
“Baaaaay-keeeey!”
I crouched down. Australis, who was still riding my hip, squawked in annoyance. “I’m sorry, buddy. I thought you would be outside longer. Blankey really needs a bath.”
Bo seemed to deliberate for a moment, then announced, “Bah.” {“Bath.”}
“Wait, you want to take a bath? It’s, like, 1pm.”
Bo: <grunts noncommitally> “Myeh.”
I sighed. “Yes or no?”
“Yesh.” {“Yes.”}
“Um… ok, we can do that.”
Before I had finished speaking, Bo had raced to the bathroom and cranked the hot water to full blast. We’re big fans of teaching via natural consequences, but second-degree burns are a little too natural for my liking. I reduced the hot water and turned on the cold water. After a minute, the bath had equilibrated to a reasonable temperature.
During that minute, I struggled to keep Australis from launching herself into the water. She loves water more than any kid I know, which kind of makes me feel bad that her baths are so infrequent. (I mean, if I don’t bathe myself every day, why should I bathe my kids every day?)
In the past (i.e. before Australis could sit up), my kids bathed separately. However, her psychological and physiological development have afforded her the dual abilities to: 1) understand that she desires to get in her brother’s bath, and 2) physically effectuate that desire. As a result, Taylor and I have had to improvise a safe method by which our children can share a bath.
What sort of bath seat is that? you might wonder.
Well, it’s not a bath seat. It’s a Mamas & Papas Baby Snug, which is actually designed for mealtime. [Note: In fact, this very Baby Snug appears as an instrument of Bo’s mealtimes in both How This Blog Got Its Name and When Fur Babies Get Supplanted.] Nevertheless, the Baby Snug gets the job done… enough.
On the day of the story, the Baby Snug was conveniently located in Bo’s room, where I had disassembled it and left it to dry several days ago, after the kids’ most recent bath. After realizing that I would not be able to keep Australis out of the bath, I pried off her iron grip on the tub, sternly admonished Bo, “Wait here: I will be right back!”, and ran to grab the Baby Snug. Juggling its three parts and a still-squirming Australis, I sprinted back into the bathroom, where Bo was sitting in the exact same position as he had been ten seconds previously.
“Ok, good, you’re still alive,” I huffed in relief.
He gave me a look that said, Please. I’m less likely to drown than you are.
I plunged the Baby Snug down into the rising bath water. “You know, Bo, I think we’re actually good on water,” I realized, reaching to shut off both knobs. He immediately twisted the cold knob just a smidge, and a trickle of icy water sprinkled into the tub.
“Do you want me to add some hot water too, or just cold?”
“Duh coh.” {“Just cold.”}
“Ok, weirdo. Alright, I have to take it off your sister’s diaper, and then I’ll put her in the bath with you.”
“Ah-sah, die-uh. Ah-sah, bah.” {“Aza, diaper. Aza, bath.”}
“Yes, buddy. That’s exactly right! Diaper, then bath.”
I laid Australis down on the bathmat and unsnapped her diaper.
“Poopie!” Bo cried — and he was right.
Somehow, it hadn’t crossed my mind that my daughter might produce a second bowel movement for the day, and I was ill-equipped to deal with the surprise. Holding her as though she might combust at any second, I rotated back and forth between the tub and toilet. A series of options sprang to mind. Just stick her in the tub with poop on her butt? Spray her with the toilet sprayer? Wash her off in the sink?
At last, I chose what seemed to be the most reasonable option, which was to wipe my baby with, well, a baby wipe. “Ok, wait here, again!” I commanded Bo. I left the diaper in the bathroom and brought Australis to her changing table. Several wipes later, and she was clean enough for the bath.
“Alright, Bo, now Aza is gonna get in the bath with you!”
I added the insert to the Baby Snug, plopped in Australis, and fitted on the snap-in tray. Boom! Makeshift bath seat. Then, I began to spray off a poopie diaper for the second time in less than an hour.
Unfortunately, I had not gotten better with experience. A few seconds into splattering my toilet, I glanced back at the bath — only to discover that the Baby Snug was floating.
“Oh my gosh!” I shrieked, and stuck out a foot to hold down the seat. (Both hands were still occupied.) Based on the dimensions of the bath and Baby Snug, I didn’t think Australis could actually flip over… but I was unwilling to test my theory. So, I balanced on one leg as I finished cleaning the diaper, stowing it in the wet bag, and finally washing my hands.
Exhausted, I sat down on the bathmat. “Wow, Mommy is beat,” I exhaled.
Bo eyed me quizzically, so I amended, “Mommy is very tired.”
Bo was about to respond when Australis sent a wave of water into his face. He spluttered for several seconds, then justifiably splashed her back. Australis squealed with delight, then smacked the water before her once more.
Each of these percussive events sent water sloshing over the tub and onto my dress.
“No splashing,” I whimpered. Neither child paid attention, which was just as well. I wasn’t willing to actually force the issue. Instead, I watched as they gleefully doused each other and drenched me.
The relative calm lasted for only a few minutes, after which, Australis attempted to stand up in the Baby Snug. The tray precluded success, but her message was clear nonetheless.
“Alright baby, I’ll get you out. Give me a second.”
I released the tray and swept my daughter up into a gray hooded towel.
“Ah-sah, ah duhn.” {“Aza, all done.”}
“Good using your words, Bo! You’re right — Aza is all done.” I paused, then asked, “Do you want to be all done too?”
“No, no.”
“Ok, that’s fine. You can get out in a little while.”
“No, no.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“No, no, no.”
“Wait — are you singing ‘no’ to the tune of the ABCs?”
“No, no, no, no. No-no-no-no-no.”
I rolled my eyes as Bo rolled into the QRS segment…
“No, no, no.”
…and then finished out the rest of the alphabet.
“No, no, no. No, no, no, no!”
“Ok bud. Whatever you say.”
As Bo played with his foam bath letters — presumably in an attempt to make them spell “no” — I slathered some high-quality dumpster lotion all over my daughter’s soft skin. As I finished up, I heard a slosh! behind me. Turning around, I discovered Bo standing at the edge of the tub, lifting one leg in preparation to climb over.
“Alrighty, so I guess you’re ready now!” I helped him out onto the bathmat, then draped a polar bear towel around him.
He clutched the towel to his chest, pointed at the bathroom mirror, and shouted, “Bruh!”
“What?”
“Bruuuuh!”
“‘Brush’? Like ‘toothbrush’?”
“Myeh.”
“Yes or no?”
“Myesh!” {“Yes”… with attitude.}
I exhaled in a laugh. “Ok, yes, you can brush your teeth.”
I opened the bathroom mirror and grabbed Bo’s toothbrush, which we normally only use before bed. Somehow, though, Bo got in the habit of brushing his teeth after every bath, which makes more sense when the bath takes place at night. Still, I wasn’t going to argue with what is essentially a good habit.
“Pay!” {“Paste!”}
I squeezed out a pea of children’s toothpaste. “Good enough?”
“Pi-uh!” {“Pick up!”}
“You want me to pick you up? I’m holding your sister right now.”
“Pi-uh!!” {a more emphatic “Pick up!”}
“Ugh, fine.” I squatted down and snaked an arm under Bo’s armpits, then awkwardly rose to a lopsided standing position. Our reflection was hilarious: both kids wrapped in towels, and me in a drenched house dress. If I had an extra hand, I would have taken a picture.
Bo finished brushing and wriggled out of my grasp. After handing me his toothbrush, he sprinted back toward the living room, naked and free. I decided I’d deal with him later. For now, I had a tired baby to nurse. “Alright, sleepy baby, do you want a snackie? We’re overdue for your nap.”
Australis yawned as I diapered and dressed her, then whined piteously as I yanked off my soaking garment and tossed it into one of our hampers. She nursed for all of a minute before falling asleep.
Suddenly down to only one child, I took the opportunity to lotion up my son, whom I left in his birthday suit. He was absorbed in his Duplos, and under the unrelenting June sun, our house was certainly warm enough. (I hadn’t redressed, either.)
“Ok bud, I’m gonna go clean up the bathroom,” I informed him.
Bo: <grunts in vague acknowledgment>
Leaving Bo to his Duplos, I ducked into the laundry room to toss Blankey into the dryer. Bo seemed to have forgotten its absence — at least for now. Back in the bathroom, I used a towel to mop up the water that had puddled on the tile and sprayed the toilet area with Lysol (again).
It was only then that I remembered that one of my goals for the day had actually been to wash the dog, which would undoubtedly undo my recent progress. However often I clean the bathroom, it always reverts to its dirty-YMCA-locker-room-esque state within mere minutes — so I bit the bullet and yelled for my dog to join me.
“Mache!” <pause> “MACHE!”
Slowly, my Great Pyrenees mix slunk around the corner and eyed me from out in the hall.
“Bath time!” I commanded.
Mache (sounds like “McKee”) darted toward my room, only to discover that the way was blocked by a baby gate we recently installed for just that purpose. (Well, the general purpose of keeping Mache out of our room — not necessarily the specific purpose of forcing her to take a bath.) Stymied, she turned and grudgingly slithered into the tub.
[Note: If this all sounds familiar, it might be that you’ve read The Birth of Borealis: Part I or A Stinky Situation, which both feature a reluctantly-bathed Mache.]
I washed my dog with the relative efficiency that comes from four years of semi-regular practice. After turning off the water, I waited for her to shake, then toweled her off as best as I could. Her next shake produced even more water — and a huge puff of newly-dislodged ivory fur. Ah, well. I had known my “clean” bathroom wouldn’t last.
Even still, I was surprisingly light-hearted. Despite the odds, I had conducted three successful baths during which no one had become seriously injured. Sure, my living room would now look like the abode of an especially hirsute abominable snowman, and Bo was still naked, and Blankey was still in the dryer, but hey — you can’t win ‘em all.
Maybe I could take a bath, too, I suddenly thought. I’ll ask Bo if he’d be ok with that.
As I used yet another towel to start soaking up Mache’s watery trail, I yelled, “Hey Bo! Can you come here?”
Somehow, I didn’t consider that my summons might work immediately. Before I could warn him, Bo sprinted down the hall, slipped in the puddle, and landed on his face.
“So… I guess I won’t be taking a bath, then?”
Bo’s deafening wail was answer enough.
P.S. Don’t worry — Bo was fine. I think the fall hurt his ego more than it did anything else, and a freshly-laundered Blankey did much to heal his boo-boos.