Studies Interrupted

The saga continues.

Yes, THAT saga.

Today, I was minding my own business, attempting to wrap my head around Organic Chemistry (I have a midterm on Monday) when my little Cherub informed me that, “I have to go pee.” My eyes narrowed as a smell caught me right in the left nostril. We started toward the main floor bathroom. I stopped short and decided to double check the pants situation, since she looked like she had a bit of a tail.

And put my inquisition finger directly in shit.

Yes, she had a baby-esc-up-the-back-five-alarm-explosion. How? HOW? Ugh.

I immediately thought about nothing but amputating my now shitty right index finger. Get it off. GET IT OFF, my mind raced. I went to the bathroom and proceeded to scrub my hand, Level 3 NICU style.

Once scrubbed in, we proceeded to go upstairs to the bathroom with the shower. There would be no horror story occurring in my main floor bathroom today. No. Today it would occur upstairs. On the way up the stairs she was protesting about having to take a shower. I was reminding her if she just went in the potty, there would be no showers.

I began my ritual of minimizing collateral damage, removing her socks and Shimmer and Shine slippers. I started to pull up her shirt and noticed that it was part of the collateral damage. I carefully rolled it up so as not to get shit in her ponytail and removed it. It went into the sink without drama. I marvelled at my rolling/tossing skills. It’s the little victories, I thought to myself. Next, I put her directly in the tub with her pants still on.

As a side note, it is one of those snow days when going to work is not the first thing that a sane person would do if they can work from home. So, that’s where Wade was, in the basement happily oblivious to the trauma unfolding two floors above. If I recall correctly, there was an “in good times and bad” clause on our wedding day. I shared my pain.

“Come upstairs, I have something to show you,” I said, having just picked the lock to get into the office.

“What? Uh no, not that,” he replied, knowing full well what I was about to show him.

“You’ll see,” I replied with what I would imagine was the last fragment of my dignity fading from my eyes.

He reluctantly pulled himself away from his work. I would imagine the thought of lunch was beginning to cross his mind.

Once upstairs, I had her turn around. Shit was half way up her back. I slowly peeled Her pants off to reveal yet another shit balloon. “Oh my,” he said. I asked him to retrieve the famed all-purpose cleaner. If we had a vat of Spray 9, I would have been happier. Once he delivered the aforementioned item he did his best impersonation of Dracula circa 1992 by turning immediately into vapour, not to be seen again until 7:30. In all fairness, he has dealt with more of these than I have. Alone, I soldiered on.

Just me versus the Putin of poop. You know, nuclear and corrupt.

The shower was doing a fine job, cleaning the mess off of her and the tub. When her underwear made their way to her final ankle, she decided rather than just taking the foot out, she would try to kick free while shrieking about how gross it was. Shit flew into places that I am not happy to report. More cleaning was required to fix the mess. If I had juice on hand that wasn’t in a box and tasted like ass, I would’ve made myself a Cosmo or ten.

So, to the makers of PEG, yeah. Still fuck you. I have reduced the dosage and now we have a one-day reprieve and then another apoocalypse. More to come.