Changing Pants and an Adage

I have five children with one on the way. There was bound to be a post about poop sooner or later.

This is that post.

You don't have to read it. Consider yourself warned.

It never fails. Sometime during dinner, one of our littles excuses herself to use the restroom, and right when I'm about to enjoy my piping hot dinner, I get the call, "I'm all do-ooone!"

This means, "Mother, you're the best. Will you please come and wipe me? I know it's a lot to ask. I'll appreciate your sacrifice forever,"--only with fewer words. It's the economical way to tell me I'm awesome.

This call has awakened me from a deep sleep, seeping between the ceiling and floor that divides the basement and main level. I've also received this call right as the baby is drifting off, and it has penetrated at least three doors and double that many walls.

The unrelenting summons follows me. Hunts me. Finds me no matter where I am hidden. It cares not my circumstance or mood.

And when I am summoned, I must go--as surely as the person had to go in the first place.

Tonight at dinner, it happened.

We heard the cute little voice coming from the bathroom, announcing her completion.

I left my hot dinner to answer her call. Everything went as well as I could have hoped, and in a few minutes I went back to eating my now lukewarm dinner.

While I was away, the baby-in-potty-training-pants got down from the table and ran behind the couch. When we discovered her, I tapped my husband's shoulder once and said, "You're it."

He was confused. I explained that the baby now needed to be changed. It was his turn. He looked bewildered.

I insisted.

He's a good one, that man. He dutifully, and even cheerfully, went to the rescue. I sighed in contentment, glad to have him on my team, and wondered again how single parents do it.

Not long into my second bite of dinner, I heard his distress signal. "Uh... Mama? Um...I'm not sure how to do this."

I didn't need to see what was happening. I knew what it would look like. You don't easily forget a hunk of gunk in those thick, potty-training panties. By your fifth child, the experience is cemented into your mind.

In my husband's defense, I have to admit, this was bad. So bad, in fact, that I had to laugh. Also, I had to set the baby in the tub and work from there. It was so, so, so bad. He stuck beside me, and I loved that, because the mess would have become much worse if I had to clean it on my own. Somehow it always spreads, like an air-borne illness on the subway, covering surfaces it shouldn't and waiting to further promulgate its nastiness. And it does so at lightning speed.

In the end, we cleaned everything and everyone up, we snarfed the cold grub, and the night went forward as it normally does.

But I think we should change that urban expression to: the poop hit the pants of a toddler during dinner time. It would be waaaaay more accurate.

And I'm betting I'd be able to use it tonight when dinner time comes.