It was almost time for bed and she needed a bath. She was at daycare all day trading germs with the other toddlers, taking turns putting Peppa Pigs in their mouths and hoping no one gets sick. We got ourselves into a routine where it’s bath, bottle, and bed, and that’s it. No messing around. No falling for her tricks. Nothing. Of course, that’s all a lie and we’re wrapped around the kid’s finger. She’s one and more powerful than the President, but she’s ours and only she bosses us around.
Off goes the diaper and we head towards the tub, little dancing kid getting ready to splash with her toy ensemble that consists of a colorful shell and a few play cups. It’s like she’s having a tea party with the bubbles and she always tosses the shell out of the water. Shell doesn’t get invited anymore. I don’t know what she has against her former favorite bath toy, but the squeezy shell is just out of the picture like her future ex-boyfriends will be when she’s five.
A few minutes go by and she’s splashing all around, making an absolute mess, like toddlers are ingrained to do. My old t-shirt is soaked from the amount of splashing that’s done by a one-year-old who might be two feet tall at best. Her spaghetti arms make tidal waves of suds and her bathtime is like my bathtime.
The more she splashes around with her cups and uninvited shell, the more water she displaces from the tub and eventually the level of suds simmers down to a tinge. There’s not much soap left. Not much water left. And that’s when I saw it.
There it was. A few bubbles of her own squeaked out from behind her. It was brewing and I knew what was next.
She got silent.
I got silent.
We made very weird eye contact and then it happened.
A little surprise floated up and it was her first time shitting the tub.
I was half laughing, half thinking we’re in a soup bowl of surprises and then more floated up.
I stood her up and a few dropped down. I couldn’t believe how much this kid went. It wasn’t stopping. I grabbed her from the tub, dried her off, passed her to my wife for a second, and then went back to the tub.
It looked like meatball soup. It was all piling up in the plastic white hair catcher, you know - the one with the little spikes that catches almost everything. It gripped the poo like no other. Nothing could grab it better. Then it hit me. One of them didn’t float down to the drain where I could have grabbed them all at one shot. I don’t know why, but I reached toward the far end of the tub and grabbed it with my hand. Why did I do that? What was wrong with me? There’s plenty of objects in the bathroom that I could’ve used to scoop this out with. I could have grabbed some toilet paper, a hair clip, the toilet cleaning brush, my wife’s toothbrush, my shoe - anything else would have worked!
But there I was with a shit in my hand and I just looked at it for a second thinking “what in the hell just happened here” and put it in a plastic bag from the grocery store with the other meatball surprises from my daughter. It was like I grabbed it and the next few seconds were in slow motion and my brain thinking about how stupid that was, but it was too late to put it down, so I just went with it.
I had a full shit in my hand.
So there we are. The whole family in the bathroom that now kinda smells like a litter box, a bag full of our kid’s nuggets, a kid laughing and wanting to get back in the bath as my wife and I give her the stink eye.
She got another bath. Obviously, when your kid sits in a tub full of their own waste, they’ll need to be cleaned up (debatable). Thankfully she didn’t use the tub as a toilet on bath number two, no pun intended.
I can’t wait until she meets her first ex-boyfriend, because they are going to hear all about this.
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