Wednesday, September 26, 2007

But I May Have Saved the Pants, Thanks to My Catlike Reflexes, AKA And This is Certainly Not the First Time I've Done Something Like This

Nor will it be the last, I can GARE-ON-TEE you of that fact.

Today's Wednesday. On Wednesdays, I do my Wednesday chores, which, among the standard list of every-day household drudgery tasks, include doing a mid-week load of laundry or two and emptying all the garbage cans into the outside bin. In the grand scheme of things, for a normal human being able to walk upright and oh, I don't know, BLINK, this would be a light and simple workload that could be completed within an hour or two without major incidents.

But people, need I remind you who you're dealin' with here?

I have to take you back to earlier in the day to explain how this all came down though, so follow me back to 8:45 AM as I am clearing away the breakfast dishes and Bean is sitting in the dining room draween a pitcher fer Daddeee. I'm scraping ketchup and sausage off a lovely IKEA® plastic flower-plate, looking out the window of my kitchen sink, enjoying the lovely sunlight filtering through the leaves and thanking the Lord for the cooler weather that trundled in overnight, when Bean appears behind me and says, softly, and with much trepidation, Mama, I haffa go poo poo.

WELL SAINTS PRESERVE US! What a big girl, telling me that! Yay, Bean! Hurry to the potty now and go. Do you need help or do you want to do it all by yourself?

She doesn't budge. Her face has NOT registered the happy smile of pride she usually sports after getting the verbal high five from Mama. In fact, it looks SAD. Or... OH NO. Guilty.

You already went poo poo didn't you?


I retreat to the backside of the toddler to assess the damage.

Oh yes. The tell-tale poo-poo duck-butt. You've seen this one, right? The cute little rounded underpants-clad bummy cheeks completely obscured by a pointy little pocket of poo. Pleasant!

Now people? I am not a yeller. It is not my WAY. (My way is normally to get right into the child's face and talk very softly through my teeth as if I am throttling my desire to BITE HER, which I am not saying is better than yelling, but is generally quite effective in illiciting a quick return to appropriate behavior). But today, the poo poo duckbutt absolutely SET. ME. FREE. Because WE have been potty traineding since February, and WE CAN AND DO POOP ON THE POTTY. I have seen it with mine own eyes and I will be good and gall-durned if I can understand why anyone as cute and sweet and utterly BRILLIANT as Bean would EVER choose to poop in her underpants while standing NO MORE THAN FOUR FEET from the potty unless, as is my very strong suspicion, it is to purposely and very stubbornly reduce her mother to pool of hot, ferociously angry, molten Mama-Lava. WHICH IT DID.

I ranted at that child, as I shucked off the duck-butt underpants and flipped out the offending clod with a resounding ker-thud-splash into the potty, as I threw the pink undies into the sink and turned on the hot water as HIGH as it would go, as I stormed to the laundry room to grab the Clorox® Disinfecting Wipes and thunder back quickly, ripping sheet after sheet after sheet out of the plastic tub and furiously scrubbing every surface within 10 feet of the offending "accident," as I then whisked her around and began not-all-that-gently cleaning HER with her own wipes, and as I then commanded her to MARCH UPSTAIRS AND GET INTO THE SHOWER AND DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING AND DO NOT MOVE FROM THAT SPOT UNTIL I TELL YOU TO.

Her eyes got so big I swear she could have seen her own shoulderblades without so much as a slight upward tilt of her chin.

We went upstairs and I blasted all cracks and crevaces with my hand-held shower head until the water ran clear and Bean was giggling (CURSES!) that it tickled. Then I lathered, rinse, repeated, dried, put her in clean underpants and carted her to her room for a time-OUT.

I returned to the scene of the crime to discover that I had accidently dumped one of the USED wipes into the garbage can instead of the potty. GLAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! Alas it was time to go for our morning walk, so I flushed the wipe and moved the defiled can to the top of the washer to remind me to disinfect it.

When it was time to do the laundry, the Poopcan greeted me with a Hidy Ho! Mr. Stinkbucket here! and I immediately doused it with 2 tablespoons of undiluted bleach and moved it to the top of the dryer whilst I loaded the Wednesday Wash into the machine and fired it up, all the while, because I am me, and I am a complete airhead, I'm mantra-izin' to myself, don'tgetanyonyou don'tgetanyonyou, don'tgetanyonyou, BECAUSE... I'd showered and dressed already, and thanks to the new leaf I've been trying to push/pull/strain/tug/force over lately, to please, for the sake of the neighbors, try to look DECENT during the day instead of moping around in faded, holey jeans and a beat-up, too short t-shirt and scraping my hair back into a lumpy, prickly little stub of a ponytail, I was wearing a brand new pair of Ann Taylor pants fresh from the tailor and my favorite black tie-front babydoll shirt, and I didn't want any little dots of bleach to get on my lovely fresh ensemble.

Got the laundry laundering and rushed up to gather the remaining garbage from upstairs before Bean fell asleep for her nap, and returned to the laundry room to bag everything up for the trip out to the Big Bin. On the way through, I stopped at the kitchen sink to turn on the water, so it could get nice and hot, so I could then fill up Mr. StinkBucket with super hot water, to dilute the bleach and complete the disinfecting process. Took the garbage out, caught a glimpse of myself in the side of my car on the way back and noticed that HEY, THESE PANTS MAKE MY BUMMY LOOK KINDA SMALLER! became distracted by that notion (and may have begun to prance, but I'm not committing to that in writing). Came back inside through the laundry room where, with a flourish, I grabbed the Poopcan and lifted it HIGH ABOVE my head in small-butted triumph and happily leapt into the kitchen toward the running hot water, WHEN... I remembered the bleach in the can.

Which was now raining down now upon the rear passenger side of my head, coating the shoulder of my precious black shirt, and skittering down the right leg of my amazingly de-bootifying new Ann Taylor khakis.


The shirt is RURNT. In my fully-2/3rds-windows-and-not-a-curtain-in-sight-kitchen, in broad daylight, I whipped off all my clothes with no less alacrity than I'd have employed should said garments have been completely ablaze, to discover that already, these .37 seconds later, I now owned a black tie-front shirt with ONE ORANGE SLEEVE and a pair of khakis that were quickly becoming leopard-skin pants. So, I tossed the shirt into the garbage and shoved the pants under the still-running-with-considerable-zeal kitchen faucet to rinse them.

I'm going to stop there because the rest of the story is just too pitiful for public consumption, but I will ask you this question: Do you have ANY idea how slippery bleach is when dribbled onto a smooth kitchen floor and stepped in on the fly? With bare feet?

The good news is, the pants actually look okay after their hasty trip through the washer. I'll be needing those to cover up the large black and blue bruises on my tiny little bummy.



  1. Now that my laughter has calmed down enough that I can type... tell-tale duck butt? That is the perfect description for that!

    However, you do realize that Bean played you on this, right?

  2. *thinking to myself* I should not be laughing, I should not be laughing! OH.MY.GOSH. I'm rolling!!! I too am having the potty training melt down. "Maddy do you need to go potty?" "No." 2 seconds later, she's peepeeing on my floor. UGH!

    I love Ann Taylor's clothing lines --- so glad you were able to salvage the pants. What a huge fashion tragedy that would have been!

  3. Oh boy! I don't think there's a mom out there that can't relate to this! We've all been there (Except I never got bleach on pants that make my bum look smaller, because I've never owned a pair of those!) Hope tomorrow's a better day.

  4. don'tlaughdon'tlaughdon'tlaugh...
    I thought I was the only one who had days like this! Be thankful your hair is lighter, try explaning orange hair...not a good time. Please tell us the rest...I am on the edge of my seat...please...

  5. Okay, wow...The whole story is great! But the poo-poo duck butt thing is so true!! I have so been there and I'll be going there again soon I imagine. I had this crazy fantasy last nigth that my toddler might be a child who would one day say to me, "I have to go potty" and then from that day on, no diapers or accidents. We'll see. My older daughter took about a year to potty train. Too fun.

  6. Yes, I know too well the poo poo duck butt--unfortunately. I can only envision all of this happening. But I am glad to know I'm not the only one to get excited about my getting smaller bummy glimpses I sometimes catch. Here's to sparkle--time to buy new shirts!

  7. Yes, I know too well the poo poo duck butt--unfortunately. I can only envision all of this happening. But I am glad to know I'm not the only one to get excited about my getting smaller bummy glimpses I sometimes catch. Here's to sparkle--time to buy new shirts!

  8. Oh dear. When you told me this happened earlier in the day, I KNEW it would make a doozie of a post. you didn't disappoint. I'm so sorry about the loss of the cute shirt, but glad you were able to salvage the bootie-beautifying pants. :-)

  9. You know, it's always the clothes we love the best, isn't it?

  10. Ooooh noooo! I have a love/hate relationship with bleach.

  11. SOOOOOOOOO soooorrryyy that happened to you!!!

    And I would say that it's possible that I may have had a similar experience.

    But it's still funnier when it's you.


  12. oh my! What an ordeal.
    :( Most of my shirts have bleach on them, too. Many have been tossed just like you did. This certainly is a relate-able post.

    Minus the booty flattering bottoms.

  13. We have those same flower plates! Love 'em!

    And how much I would be laughing at this post IF it weren't for the near-death of a pair of pants that are of such great value! And I'm sorry for the shirt casualty; my deepest sympathies.

  14. i just don't even know what to say...

    should we have a funeral for that precious top?


  15. I. Am. Bummed.

    About your top. That is so sad! So glad the pants survived.

    I just don't trust myself with bleach....


  16. I HATE bleach! Seems I am always getting it on whatever I am wearing at the time and not realizing it until later when all of a sudden white/orange spots have appeared on a favorite shirt.

    Sorry to hear about your loss but this post has me chuckling first thing in the morning!

  17. See? This is why I don't own bleach. What I do - and you may want to write this down - is when something gets really disgusting, I ASK MY MOM to wash it. Worked when I was nine; still works now.

    The Baby has vowed never to toilet train, so it's all moot.

  18. Bleach. My friend and foe. Nothing says clean the way bleach smells, and if your eyes tear up because you have used too much... all the better.

    My favorite navy sweat pants are/were a hip hugger with a bell leg so I look super chic and comfortable at once. They now sport two perfect hand prints from accidently wiping bleach on my parkerhouses.


  19. well if that's not a day straight outta my playbook, I don't know what is.

  20. I think someone needs to invent a dye that "fixes" what bleach destroys. We can do it with haircolor...why not our clothes?!?!

    I hate it for ya, but I have SO been right there - rurn't clothes and all. (I threw the panties away, however.) :)

  21. I laughed so much while reading this that Phoebe kept saying, "Mommy, is something funny?" and "Mommy, are you crying?"

    You know that there is a law that says that if you are going to spill something, you can only spill it on something that is brand-new, and not some nasty old thing you've had forever, right?

  22. I'm sorely tempted to print this off and tuck it away in my journal as my own. I've done it all, more than once! If my son makes it through adulthood without needing serious therapy thanks to my reactions to his attempts to un-potty train himself it will be a miracle. And I was thisclose to putting on real clothes you've gone and scared me :)

  23. i am not really sure how to break this to you, but U.R.FUN.NEE!! oh, and the potty-trained/training-amen sista! when, oh when will they learn it ain't no fun for anyone!

  24. Sorry about your clothes but this is just too funny. I love the 'molten mamma lava' expression