My son pooped on the floor last night.
I felt this wave of what seems like a common mommy combo:
frustration and compassion.
He was in the bathtub with his sister, and I went into the
next room FOR A SECOND and I heard, “Mom, I pooped on the floor!”
I came in and, not to be too graphic, but it was not the
kind of turd one could just “pick up” with a paper towel or baggie, dog
poo-style. I almost took a picture but then thought better of it.
I had him sit on the toilet to “see if there’s any more that
wants to come out,” while I went to get the cleaning supplies. (I was pretty
sure everything that wanted to come out had already come out, but I needed to
stall him so he wouldn’t A) get back in the tub before wiping or B) step in his
floor creation.)
I won’t deny that my frustration was fully present while I
was on my knees scrubbing grout, thinking “why does this stuff always happen
when hubby’s out?” (which isn’t really true, but it always seems like it in the
moment).
But then I did feel bad for him, trying his best to make it
to the toilet and not quite getting there.
And, of course, there was a silver lining: He didn’t poop in
the tub.
We must focus on the progress, not the setbacks.
Easier said now, after the mess is cleaned up, but still.
