Chain Reaction

June 20, 2008

Last Friday night, I took James swimming at the lake. When we arrived home he staunchly refused to change out of his damp Spider Man swim trunks--which I could totally understand, because they really are radtastic. Being the lazy mother that I am, I didn't feel like chasing James around and around and around, so I decided to forget about the swimsuit and resume the battle at pajama time.

'After all, what's a little bit of lake water going to hurt?' I reasoned.

Well, lake water in and of itself isn't going to hurt anything. But lake water, combined with a runny poop, mashed into a high-end sofa? That's surely going to hurt something. Like my spirit.

Apparently, James had an accident in his britches and didn't want me to know about it--hence the refusal to change his shorts. He sat on the couch, acting as though nothing had happened, all the while letting watery poo soak into the fibers of my furniture.

It took one Rug Doctor, and three bottles of cleaning solution to remediate the very smelly mess. And since we had the Rug Doctor for 24-hours, we decided to steam-clean every steam-cleanable surface in our home: the couch, the chair, the futon, the rug in the den, and the carpet in the living room.

With the exception of my husband's frequent and severe gas, it totally smells like a hotel in here.

I've been loving the freshness of my home this week.

Well, I had been loving the freshness of my home until I caught James taking a whiz on the living room carpet last night.

I scooped him up mid-tinkle, rushed him to the bathroom, whipped down his pants, and intended to put him on the potty--but that last, highly crucial step was made impossible. When I whipped down his pants, you see, a giant poo rolled down the leg of his shorts, bounced off my shin, and landed right on the top of my foot.

I was like, "OH!" and "NO!" and "HAVE SOME MERCY!"

And James, my sweet little level-headed James, said, "It's otay Mom. I hewp you cween dis up."

And help he did. Before I knew it, James had picked up the messy underpants, plopped them into the toilet, and flushed them away to the municipal sewer system.

I stood there. Speechless. Jaw hanging. Imagining the plumber's invoice.

James on the other hand, offered me a very happy smile. His shoulders were scrunched up around his chin and he bobbed back and forth from his heels to his tip-toes.

"Mom," he shyly muttered, "I hewped. I fwushed my Sponch Bob undawoos down the toy-wet!"

I watched in silence as his smile faded, his lips began to quiver, and tears suddenly spurted from his eyes.

"I fwushed my Sponch Bob undawoos and I well not see dem again. Oh Mom....I AM SO SAD! I AM SO SO SAD....DAY ES GONE!!!!!!"

I was sad, too. Sad about the state of my plumbing system. Sad that there was a pile of poo sitting on my foot. Sad that there was a spot of pee on my fresh, clean carpet. And sad to see my kid so sad.

Well, thank goodness Target stays open until 10 o'clock, because now we have four brand new pair of Sponge Bob underpants to flush away.