I thought I had reached a point in motherhood where nothing poop related could gross me out. I was pretty sure I had seen in it all. In fact, I was pretty cocky in the poop department. I pretty much fancied myself a veteran of domestic poop wars.
You know what they say, pride goeth before the great poop fall.
My husband had been out of town for two weeks on a work trip. He finally returned home, and I was more than excited to have an extra pair of hands helping me wrangle my tiny terrorist. He came home sick, however, and being a man and therefore an even bigger baby than, say, my actual baby, he went straight to the doctor. So there I was, rocking the mommy thing alone again - or so I thought.
I ran the bath like I do every night, completely unaware of the impending crisis that was about to go down. Just as her baby toes hit the bath water, a pooptastrophe of pretty epic proportions struck. Because this has, believe it or not, happened to me before, I was grossed out but still relatively unphased. I thought I was an old pro at handling this type of situation. Nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen next.
Just as I was about to whisk her out of the tub, she grabbed a handful of poop and with a devilish gleam in her eye she crammed it into her mouth! Not being as cool a cucumber as I thought I was, I started to scream. At the sound of my wail, her eyes widened in fear and she began to match my screams.
And there we stood, both of us screaming, when it occurred to me - I literally don't know shit.
