Perfect Storm

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            Our PEG adventure continues. This week felt like a bit of two steps forward and a lot of steps back. There are some glorious days when shit actually made it into the toilet. We rejoiced. M&M’s were dispersed. "We're turning a corner," I exclaimed. And then the clouds gathered, the sky darkened and the shit storm was renewed, for the pellet shits in the toilet that we were celebrating were merely the plug holding back the torrent of sewage. Days without a faecal related incident remain at zero.

            The silver lining on this week has been my ability to dodge the Battle Shit Royal. Wade dealt with two after two of three of our celebrations. The third celebration was not followed up with anything untoward. I didn’t even know the first one was in progress due to the fall semester schedule being released. I was so engrossed on planning the next semester of my life that I didn’t smell, see or hear the drama unfolding.  Apparently, the shit indicator-line up her back is getting higher with each incident.

            Then there was the event which occurred today. It transpired at the day home with her caregiver, Angela. A short Italian lady whose name says it all…Angel-a. We owe her so much for not only embracing our kid while I am at school but also for enduring shitty moments like today. I’m not sure how she does her job, caring for more kids than I would ever have the patience for (hence why only one child will come out of me).

            My knowledge of what had unfolded at Angela’s house was initiated with a text message. I was just sitting down for the lunch I hadn’t had time to eat at school. Apparently, there were no pants in Adriana’s bag. I was initially perplexed and my mind’s eye flashed to the interior of the bag. Mentally digging through I remembered that there was a rather absurd abundance of shirts and a deficiency of pants. Then I began to wonder why my kid was now pant-less in a semi-private residence, given that there would be no less than four other children there. So, like the masochist that I am, I asked, and immediately regretted her response. Angela was not a “happy camper.” Apparently, the contaminant was everywhere. An unscheduled bath had just been completed.

            I slowly chewed, reading my phone. I pondered my luck of not having to deal with any of the shitty parts of the week. The Crispy Crunch tagline “the only thing better than your Crispy Crunch is someone else’s,” danced through my head. The only difference was my brain switched the line to, “the only thing better than dealing with my kid’s blow out is my kid’s blow out being dealt with by someone else.” I chuckled. Yes, I would imagine when I die I am pretty positive I will be boldly discovering if there is a hell. And it will be filled with my child’s shit.

            I decided that my planned power nap would have to be postponed and that Angela needed to be liberated of the Poop Princess. I gathered a pair of pants and headed over. I wasn’t sure what would be waiting for me, but I was pretty sure that my evening would probably not involve more shit. I hope.

            On arrival, my kid was running around in her Thomas underpants. Yes, they are boy underwear, because feminism, equality and International Women’s Day. Angela looked like I would imagine I typically do after dealing with a five alarm blow out; exhausted and in need of a ludicrous quantity of alcohol.

            She calmly recalled what she found after Adriana’s nap. Or rather what she smelled. She asked Adriana the quintessential question: “where you go to poop?” Of course, Adriana said “in the potty.” We’ve harped on her ad nauseam about where biological hazardous waste goes. She gets it. Bowel and brain, apparently, are still friends off.

            Then she went on: It was on the pillow, the pillow case, in her hair, where she was sleeping, on the floor where she laid down in the bathroom, on the tub. She continued, that she pulled up my progeny’s shirt and was aghast that the poop line had migrated to her hair line. Hence why it was on the pillow case.

            She was sparse on the details of the actual clean-up process, but she has requested another package of wipes as her washer whirred merrily in the background. As I listened to her recount the horror of her afternoon, I thought about reparation. How would I make this up to her? So, I asked, “what kind of doughnut do you like?” (I’m not cheap, I am a student and can’t afford proper reparation like an all-expense paid spa cruise for two weeks). She broke into the biggest smile and explained that she was looking for a Texas Doughnut. She had one 29 years ago and has been craving one ever since.

            Reparation, I told her, will come in the form of either the object of her desire, or failing me finding one on the weekend, a batch of chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese icing made by yours truly. Perhaps the addition of a bonus a jug of bleach, or gasoline, matches and a burning barrel may also be in order.

            At this time my little perfect storm system is perched on the toilet, having just deposited another pellet. I will hold my applause and celebratory toilet training currency until I see something more tangible. Something more along the lines of a toilet clogging deposit. Until that happens I will stand at the ready, plunger in one hand, all-purpose cleaner in the other.