And that’s a gross understatement.
As I was tidying up the living room after Max went to bed last night – my riveting nightly ritual – I noticed a big gooey streak, about two inches long, across the couch. It was like a slug had slithered by, leaving behind its thick, yellowy ooze to say “I was here.” But I have never seen a slug inside our house (except my husband after a night out with the boys), and I doubted if this was the first sighting. No, this stripe of sticky spunk had the look of something emitted by a wet nostril. A tiny wet nostril, on the face of a gorgeous yet gruesome kid who sees no difference between a Kleenex and mama’s new sectional sofa.
I never particularly liked to talk about bodily fluids. I mean, come on, who does? But since I became a mother, it has become a part of my everyday vocab. Snot. Poop. Spit. Pee. Boogers. Wax. Scabs. When you see me on the street, I look pretty together; but guaranteed somewhere on my clothes is a little patch of crud that originated from some orifice of my son.
Now I know he can’t help it. He’s still pretty new to the planet, still exploring the order of the universe. But still – he’s a disgusting little explorer, ain’t he?
He sits there eating supper in his high chair, with a giant noodle stuck to the side of his face. Now, how on earth does he not know that’s there? This truly boggles my mind. Or maybe he does know, and he just doesn’t care. Same reason he doesn’t care that there’s a pound of poop dangling between his legs and squishing into his butt cheeks when he sits down.
Last Sunday we went swimming at the Aquarena. Oh the mayhem of getting us both out of the wet clothes and into dry clothes with Max constantly running back toward the showers where we had just spent 25 minutes with a boogie board. (Yes, he’d rather stand in the shower than get in the pool.) So I whipped out the raisins, a fave treat, to try and occupy him while I speed-dressed. He skipped around the change room with the teeny Sunmaid box, dropping raisins onto the grotesque, wet floor and picking them up and eating them. EW x 1,000,000. Can you get athlete’s foot in your mouth? Hope not.
During his first visit to a beach, beautiful Windmill Bight, he ate about two cups of sand. I have pictures and witnesses to prove it.
He makes out with Splash – a lot. Seriously, he consumes at least a couple tablespoons of dog saliva daily. Gross, I know. What am I supposed to do? He loves doggy kisses, and Splash loves searching the inside of his mouth for leftovers.
He eats bubbles. Like, those oily orbs that float around in the air with which every kid on earth is fascinated. At Little Gym on Tuesday, at bubble time, Max got down on all fours and ate a big bubble that had landed on the floor without popping. Bursting it with his finger was not enough for Curious Ginger; he had to eat it.
When he gets in the bathtub, he drinks the bath water. If there’s no cup in the tub to scoop it up, he’ll suck it out of a facecloth.
And that’s not the worst of the bathtub shenanigans, trust me. On Monday morning, he woke up at 6am (sigh), and my aunt Linda (Max’s awesome babysitter) wasn’t picking him up until 8:45. So we had lots of time to get things accomplished – breakfast, play, maybe even a bath! I really should be less ambitious. Max was in the tub playing and splashing, so I left the bathroom for a minute to get dressed, then returned to the bathroom to de-uglify. I didn’t glance toward the tub. I could hear him playing as usual; all was well. But then a whiff of something foul danced across my nose. I turned to see Max in the tub – with about ten little brown balls of excrement floating around him. (Excrement – that’s polite for shit. Oh who are we kidding, let’s just say shit, shall we? It’s easier, and funnier.) I immediately plucked him from the chocolate milk and dried him off and released him so I could try and clean up this horrendous crime scene. I scooped chunks of undigested orange from the tub to the toilet. Too much information? Too bad; this is my nightmare and now you’re in it too. Cackle, cackle.
My week was off to an explosive start. On the bright side, maybe this was potty training progress; the tub is right next to the toilet!
So I did a preliminary clean-up, knowing a more thorough disinfecting was going to be required, and walked out to the living room to check on my little shit disturber. He was standing there watching TV with a little puddle in front of him. Of course – he had peed on the floor; I mean he couldn’t have peed in the tub, that would have been WRONG.
But wait, it gets better. I went back to the loo to spray the tub with Lysol, then I grabbed a diaper from his room. (Hey, there was no rush to diaper him now that he had expelled everything in his system!) But by the time I got back to the living room, he was standing there with a shocked look on his face, pointing to a spot on the floor about 5 feet away from him. I walked gingerly toward the spot that was hidden from my view by the ottoman, and there it was – another lovely steamer. I honestly wondered if it was doggy barf, but Splash hadn’t budged from her spot under the highchair where she waits, shark-like, for the remnants of breakfast. It had to be Max. And I found a smudge of the putrid evidence on him when I carted him off to his change table – to get diapered and dressed, but first – corked.