This gruesome tale is in honor of Blue on National Dog Day…
The last two weeks have been a slew of rushing from activities, meet ups, and appointments and trying to beat the ABA therapist back to the house so I have at least ten minutes to shove clutter in less conspicuous places all while procrastinating our back to school to-do’s which starts on Monday.
Last Friday, I was frantically trying to finish getting the kids ready to go to a much needed play date. The tricky thing about morning play dates is unless we get somewhere before 10 AM we have an hour to be there before we have to turn around and head back for lunch and ABA. That means most mornings, I have a solid ninety minutes to feed both children, get every one dressed, caffeinated myself, eat breakfast, pack a diaper bag, make sure everyone’s teeth are brushed, redress Olive because she’s taken off her clothes, feed the dog, brush Olive’s hair again because she’s been rolling around the ground wrapped in a blanket, take away the permanent marker from Willow, unsuccessfully scrub off the permanent marker from Willow’s legs, warn the kids that we’re leaving in five minutes three times in twenty minutes, spill coffee on my clean shirt, rummage through the three loads of clean laundry still sitting unfolded in baskets because I have no other clean shirts (you get the idea of how my mornings tend to go around here).
Of course, right as I was in that golden moment of thinking we were actually headed out the door and I’m grabbing my purse and corralling the kids towards the mom-mobile, my nose picked up that Willow had pooped the diaper I had changed for her not more than five minutes ago. Not willing to break my forward momentum, I changed her quickly and efficiently on the couch (or just quickly if I’m being honest), put her back up right, and threw out the shit filled diaper without a second thought inside the kitchen garbage and headed out the door (where I most likely had to chase the kids in aimless circles around the SUV until I could actually physically get them strapped into the vehicle).
Now generally as most seasoned diaper disposal professionals (or DDP for short) will know, it’s always best to throw out a #2 diaper in the outdoor receptacles because gross I’ve long since given up on diaper genies with baby #1 because while a good idea in theory it involves emptying a canister that is basically the equivalent of plastic sausage links filled with excrement and regardless of how efficiently it seems to store dirty diapers, at the end of the day it’s still a ticking time bomb of fecal matter that is sitting inside your house. Its canister is even shaped like it might be a missle. Back to the matter at hand, the garbage was going to need to be taken out once I got back from the play date and not wanting to disrupt my forward momentum and needing both hands for the herding of small children I was about to undertake, it was just more convenient to throw it out in the kitchen garbage.
It turned out to be a big mistake which would haunt me for the rest of the weekend. When it comes to getting into the garbage, Blue is good at what he does. Since he is taller than the top of the garbage lid and being a bit of a cocky bastard, he does not wait for me to leave most of the time when he gets into the garbage; he will do the deed right in front of me because he has long ago shed the facade that I have any real authority over him or the house in general. He does as he pleases because he outweighs me by 75 lbs. He also doesn’t really need to knock over the can to get into the garbage, he just lifts the lid or removes it altogether and drops his head in like its some kind of trough. For a very long time, the garbage and recycling cans were moved on the other side of the baby gate if he was in the house with us which means they’re next to the restroom in the hallway leading into the bedrooms which is an awkward place for garbage. Luckily though he’d seemed to recently have matured and I’d become lazy in my habit of moving said cans.
Fast forward to two hours later when we got back from the play date at 11:45 am, which left me exactly fifteen minutes to clean up from this morning, feed the kids, and pick up the playroom before the therapist arrived. I walked into the living room to see Olive’s favorite twin sized fleece blanket spread on the hardwoods, covered in something brown and what looked like a quarter of the bottom of what once might have been a diaper.
Olive ran forward past me and stopped within inches of her blanket and before I could stop her, reached to grab it. Luckily she caught sight of Blue’s finger painting before I did and paused to assess the situation.
“Is that poop?”
“DON’T TOUCH IT!”
This time I scooped up the entire lot: shit covered blanket and half masticated diaper and threw it all outside. But that meant I had ten minutes to sweep up all the gel pieces that were littered like confetti in our living room, (and if you’ve ever swept up diaper gel you know those little guys are both feisty and defiant) disinfect the area and hope my Scentsy room spray would mask any of lingering smell. I also smirked at the irony that this happened to be the same blanket that just two days prior her therapist deemed it necessary to tell me that she thought the blanket needed to be washed and inferred that it smelled. A sniff check later told me that while Blue may have napped with it recently, she just didn’t have kids or pets and perhaps didn’t know that smelling a four year old’s blanket is generally ill advised. I wondered what her opinion of the blanket in its current state would render this time around.
I had more or less forgotten about the incident until the next day when we came back from yet another morning play date and my favorite throw blanket was yet again on the ground. I didn’t realize anything was amiss until Olive grabbed the far ends of it and started dragging it to the couch to roll herself into one of her cocoons and saw a half digested Pampers fall onto the hardwoods. I quickly took the blanket back and waved Willow away from the puddle of vomit on the ground (because any puddle is a muddy puddle if you’re two years old and watch Peppa Pig) until I could locate Clorox wipes and paper towel. It was the longest thirty seconds of my life. So far.
I finally cleaned up the diaper, disinfected the area and threw my blanket in the washing machine and realized that this was the THIRD time I had picked up after the same shitty diaper in TWO DAYS. First, when Willow pooped in it, then when Blue ate it and again when he threw it up. It felt like no matter what I did, I was never going to be rid of that diaper. And then I looked outside through my sliding glass door at the litter of man-sized dog droppings waiting for me and realized that perhaps I never would.