You know what’s difficult? Three kids, that’s what. Pat and I embraced one like champions, and two kids wasn’t much different. We felt, and maybe even looked like, superheroes. Well, God is now up there laughing at us because He has finally given us a taste of humble pie. After the night we had last night (more to follow), I told Pat, “I don’t think God will give us a fourth; I think He knows this is as much as we can handle.” Pat quickly disagreed, as he believes the Man Upstairs has a more vicious sense of humor than I do. I guess we’ll see in time. We will always be open to life, and natural family planning has worked as planned thus far, so we shall see how our future unfolds. In the meantime though, we’re navigating three, and the hardest part has been the older two. The drama queen and the opinionated, obnoxious, strong willed four-and-a-half-year-old girl who argues with everything are enough to put me over the edge. Add our newest bundle of joy (i.e., Peanut) to the mix, and we’ve got a three-ring circus. He is the most precious, snuggly, gassy guy who enjoys crying more than his sisters did and sleeping less too. We didn’t realize how lucky we were to have two babies come home from the hospital literally sleeping through the night. Both our girls were great babies, so it was our turn to experience the other kind of kiddo. Right?
While he really is precious (when he’s not losing it), he is a boy. He farts, grunts, burps (more like belches), snores, goes through diapers at an alarming rate and wakes up every few hours throughout the night. We have been using gripe water and gas drops like nobody’s business, and let me just tell you about the invention called the Windi. Our Aunt Katie now wants to know if it comes in an adult size for a gag gift, after I handed one off to my sister-in-law at her baby shower. I haven’t looked into it, but if it doesn’t then Fridababy has a new market they should consider targeting. This nifty little contraption is made by the same group who invented the NoseFrida (aka, snot sucker), and it’s pretty much a kazoo for the butt. The instructions warn you to be prepared for a messy experience, so now I’ve warned you too. The gist…you lube up and insert a one inch piece into your little one’s gassy backside, and if you hear what can best be described as a whistle, then you’re doing something right. It was rather frightening at first, but it helped out our Peanut and allowed us to sleep longer that night.
Sleeping, of course, is precious, but trying to find the right time to do the last feeding, get some alone time in there and get to bed in a timely manner takes a bit of juggling. On Saturday, we decided to head to bed around 10 p.m. to ensure we were in bed by 11. As I brushed my teeth, I noticed Pat grinning behind me. As I turned, he said, “Punkin’ had an accident. There’s poop on the floor.” The culprit wasn’t the baby this time. I followed him to the room with toothbrush in hand, gazed down at the trail of poop and chuckled. In hindsight, I wish I wouldn’t have chuckled because it was far from funny.
I finished brushing my teeth before dealing with the poop. I shouldn’t have given myself those extra couple minutes of brushing because that gave Pat enough time to pick up the pieces of poop without marking where they had been. Maybe keeping a pack of golf markers in the rooms would be helpful. Obviously Pat wasn’t thinking through the entire process before starting cleanup. Is that a male trait, or is it just my husband? In the long run it didn’t matter, but I’ll explain later.
As I peeled back Punkin’s sheets I saw what looked like a muddy puddle scene from “Peppa Pig.” I grabbed Sleeping Poopy and headed for the bathroom when Pat offered to take her. What a kind sentiment that was because he really wouldn’t have lasted two minutes with her. Again, I was thinking ahead, and he wasn’t.
As I started hosing her down with the max jet stream shower wand to break down the caked feces, I noticed her hands were utterly covered, and oh, lovely, it was even on her face. It was right then that Pat came in to see how things were going. I showed him her hands; he dry heaved and left. He can pick up turd nuggets off the floor, but as soon as she was, as he put it later, “tainted inside and out,” he couldn’t handle it. He’s the same with vomit. The problem with her hands being covered is not only that it’s just plain nasty, but she sucks her thumb constantly and twirls her hair, even while sleeping, and guess what…that’s how I found her. I am assuming we’ll experience our first case of pink eye within a day or two.
I scrubbed the crap out of her, literally, with two different wash cloths, and I washed her hair twice, after seeing chunks fall out during the first rinse cycle. She was not a happy camper in that shower; however, seeing how happy she was afterward made me realize how young she still is at two and a half. I asked her, “Punkin’ where does the poop go?” She responded, “In my pajamas.” Well, no, but that’s where you put it. Her lack of understanding on how big of a mess she made gave me a true appreciation for her innocence and made me less angry…not less disgusted though.
After finishing the cleanup with her, I went back in to check on Pat’s progress. He had stripped the bed putting everything into one large heap, including Punkin’s stuffed animal and comfort blankets. I wish he hadn’t because washing a stuffed animal isn’t as easy as washing blankets. Maybe her cow had escaped the poopocalypse? And Pat doesn’t think I am positive. 😉 Pat “assumed nothing was safe,” and, while he sprayed down the areas where he “remembered” seeing poop, the room reeked. So what did I do? I got down on my hands and knees and started sniffing the carpet like a bloodhound. I had to make sure his memory of poop piles served him well, but I soon realized the carpet was likely covered in poopy footprints from door to bed, as my canine behavior revealed a lot. We were off to Home Depot the next day for our second carpet cleaner rental this year and missed the Bronco game in the process. Thank you DVR.
In Punkin’s defense, we have been locking her door until we go to bed to keep her from escaping. However, Little Man was having meltdown upon meltdown that evening, so had she been trying to get out to let us know she had to poop, we never heard her. I’d like to think she tried, and the trail of poop likely tells us she did. She was a fairly easy kiddo to potty train at 21 months, and unless this was a blatant “screw you guys,” then I am left with Mom guilt thinking of her trying to escape the poopocalypse.
If anything, this circus has made me realize how much I value my hubby and our partnership. When there’s an equal playing field, and both spouses chip in and do what needs to be done without keeping score there’s less stress. While I am not sure I’ll ever look back on that night and laugh about it, I sat there on the edge of the bed that night thankful I have him by my side, even if he doesn’t think through situations logically or do things exactly the way I would.
It’s now Wednesday morning, as I finish this post, and we woke up to a pile of poop on our floor, courtesy of our dumb dog. Pat found it in the dark with his foot, so he started the day off right. Hey, maybe that’s even better luck than having a bird poop on you. Lord knows he needs it.
My question to some of you…as a new parent (or parent of multiples), what was the most helpful in the first few months?
