**Disclaimer: This post is not for the faint of heart or the easily grossed out.
Vomit, snot, diarrhea, curdled milk in hidden sippy cups....no one ever said Motherhood was glamorous.
But todays' event topped the charts for me. And I still shiver when I think about it.
We are in the midst of half heartedly potty training the boy.
After he stripped himself down naked this morning, and I finagled him out from behind the couch, I walked him upstairs and sat him on the potty.
A few seconds later he proclaimed he had tee teed a "little bit" in the potty and hopped off. The girls proceeded to come upstairs and Reese got on the potty next.
As I walked by Tate's room I saw his unmistakable "poopie stance" out of the corner of my eye. He was still without a stitch of clothes on so in one Mommy-sized bound I reached him and scooped him up by his armpits. I hadn't really thought my plan through, however and, I kid you not, the next few seconds seemed to occur in slow motion.
As I was running through his room, holding him at arms length, I remembered that Reese was still on the potty. I knew he wouldn't make it to another bathroom so I figured I had two choices: I could shove Reese off the potty, or plop Tate in the bathtub.
I was at a full run by the this time (again, still experiencing it in slow mo) when I saw Tate's head look down to the floor. The porcelain base of safety was now in my sights when I felt... it.
Unbeknownst to me, Tate had dropped his load on the floor while I was running. My foot connected with the largest ball o' nasty just as it was falling. Let me tell you, a drop kicked ball of poopie does not make a pretty sight. It flew EVERYWHERE! It squished between my toes...it hit his door...and it made a big smeared trail on the carpet. And the horrific smell spontaneously permeated the entire upstairs, and I fear, my nares for the rest of the morning.
Of course, it just took one little goofy grin from him to melt my heart and almost make me forget about my moment of mortifying messiness...almost.