As Rita sat wondering which of her siblings would feed her another whole grape next, despite the repeated “she will choke!” warnings, I decided which mess to clean first. I smelled the first on step 3 of the stairs and heard the second splatter with an “uh oh (indicating accident) /chuckle (indicating he’s still entertained) in the same spot. “Poop. Always, the poop” I prioritized as I grabbed the baby. It was a clean up on aisle “I’m never potty training!” where the carpet was confused for toilet paper and the bed sheet a toilet, and her hands were included just for fun. “Throw my diaper in the garbage, mom, and then, wash my hands,” she parented me. “Josie, you were supposed to be napping,” I said to her but more so, myself. “No, nap, Momma. Just poop.”
I’ve decided in moments when there is literal sh** spread generously all over favorite area rugs that anything I desire to say to a child the age of “I still poop on the floor,” is better left unsaid. “Just put it in the lawndy” she told me as I half scrubbed, half begged Rita to play with a toy of which she was really quite bored on the other side of the room as far away from the bacteria spread as a Curious Georgita allows. “Make Daddy do it,” Josie suggested. It’s an interesting thing, really, that a child can still struggle with diapers, but can grasp a practical understanding of the female power of manipulation just fine.
“Stay here for one minute,” I said to her in the bath filled with less than one inch of water, as I ran down to assess the smoothie mess. Which brings me to my next nonpoint of the refrigerator and three year olds. In they go, up they climb, things they spill, leftover birthday cake they eat. The mess was bad, but not the worst I’ve seen so I handed him a paper towel and went to retrieve his bathing sister.
It was probably a 45-60 second time period spent alone. But, for a two year old hippie child who lives by her feelings and fun is always best mantra, its 44 seconds too many to be left alone with a cup and water in a tub, and for this, I’m an idiot. “The ceiling is leaking!!” smoothie man warned as I stared at the empty tub, flooded floor, grinning child, and an inch of tub water looks 20 when its covering a surface its not supposed to.
I strapped on the wrong Dora Pull-up, which made her cry because the butterfly ones are not cool and I should know that she only likes the yellow flowers, and Rita asked to do the steps alone by jumping out of my arms almost breaking her neck, and in a sea of paper towels I saw a singular drop of water on top off what it looks like when James tries to clean up yogurt smoothie unattended.
“I fixed the ceiling, mom. Can we make Popcorn now?”
Happy Thursday, Go Pirates.