I was running around the house this morning in my usual routine, cleaning and picking up, throwing laundry in the dryer etc. My hands had already been soaped up and dried off half a dozen times and I'd put on at least two pumps of my hand lotion in a sorry attempt to restore the cracked dried skin to the soft silky feminine smooth as a babies bum hands I'm apparently supposed to have.
I hear my daughter call from the bathroom. I'm in the kitchen drying of said dry hands for the ten billionth time. Her call sounds dramatic but not the sort that sounds urgent. More the kind that is, Mummy I want to show you something and you have to come now. Feeling like I had neglected my little girl in the morning for the chores I was wanting to check of my list I came arunning with pumped up drama and excitement appropriate for my four, almost five year old.
I found her de-clothed and on the throne where she proudly, ever so proudly, announced she had "Soup Poop" and a little accident. In my freshly painted, beautifully and somewhat recently cleaned bathroom my daughter had a little accident with "soup poop" that couldn't wait to come out. It was a priceless moment. I cleaned up the "soup poop" and washed my hands, slapped on the hand lotion and thought to myself -- I must blog about "soup poop" later today.
Later came my son's, a twenty-one month old, announcement of his own bowel movements. For those who are not up to speed my son has been evaluated with having delayed speech and has been recommend for some group speech therapy. He isn't uttering one single word of anything remotely intelligible. But he is my boy and I love him and in my heart of mummy hearts, I know he'll prove everyone wrong one day and show us just what a smartie pants he really is.
Today, he pooped in his diaper. A nice big juicy solid bowel movement filled up his huggies and gosh darn it he just had to let me know about it -- in a public library. Here's how it all went down (no punn intended). I was sitting with both my kids in the library reading books with them and having them crawl over me. I felt like I looked like the perfect mother to outsiders -- I had the attention of my clean, groomed four (almost five year old) and my twenty one month old. Both were quiet, enjoying the books I was reading with them and cooperating with my mother chants of stay close to me, put that back, don't pull on this etc etc.
In the midst of reading a book my son stepped off my lap and marched over to the bathroom door, pointed his little index finger at it and said, "duer...duer..." He then looked at me and then at the librarian who I usually ask to push a button that opens the bathroom "duer". Lamely, and excitedly I projected my voice across the library (my four year old was clasped around my neck in a love hug) and asked him, "Ryan did you go poo-poo?" His face lite up like a lantern. My son and I were communicating with verbal utterances and understanding each other. It was a triumphant moment. Without shame and in true motheresque style I projected my voice again, "Ryan do you need a new di-di?" He responded with "Da, da" and walked towards me with confirmation that yes indeed he did want a new diaper. Of course I left the diaper bag in the car. We marched back together to the car for a diaper change and decided there just wasn't enough room to change him with the risk of loosing some of that juicy poop. What did I do? Well, I marched back to the library with the diaper gear layed him down on the floor in his full glory and changed his diaper in full smelling view of the poor unsuspecting patrons. Aren't I just a terrific mum?
I can't end this poop talk post without giving a small mention to one little book I bought for my daughter a couple years back. Check out the book below and look for it in your local library and bookstores. It is quite hilarious and perfect for little ones learning to let go.
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