7:42 a.m. - 2005-09-05
Since finding out that I have a sister, I've had a lot more casual exposure to kids than I was previously used to. Sure, I've taught for two and a half years, but it somehow isn't the same. A few of my friends have children, but since I've always been the baby-less one, our times together usually focused around more...adult centered activities.
As much as I hate to admit it, I just really don't care much for being around other people's kids. I always felt like I had more than enough exposure to them as a teacher, and didn't want to have to deal with the whining and crying and fit-throwing and boogers in my normal, every-day life.
Then my sister came along with her eight and two and a half year old, and I got a crash course in kids. I'm surprisingly grateful for the experience, especially now that I'm about to have one of my own, if for no other reason than being able to decide that my parenting style is going to be vastly different than hers.
I don't mean to fault her, because she's a good parent. She cares very much about her kids, and I'm sure that they know it. The eight year old may have her doubts from time to time, especially when her mother degrades her for eating too much and being "too fat" (she isn't, and even if she were, I'd still get pissed about my sister saying that to her), but all in all both of those children are loved and treated well, for the most part.
But it's my 2 1/2 year old nephew that I have a story about today.
The kid has issues with constipation. Serious issues that require a daily dose of kid-friendly laxatives, no doubt due to his continuous diet of Twinkies, cake, chips, candy and soda. In the past year that I've known him, I've seen him eat one vegetable (two baby carrots) and one fruit (1/4 of an apple), and those were practically force fed to him by my mother. I won't start on how frustrated I get watching them feed that child nothing but junk, but suffice it to say that Alan and I have already agreed that there won't be any of that crap in our house. We don't eat that way, and our children sure as hell aren't going to.
Anyway, he has trouble pooping. It's not uncommon for his mom or dad to have to ask him whether or not he needs them to "help" by *TMI WARNING*pulling the poop out for him, especially if he hasn't had the laxative yet that day. I'm not sure if he's embarassed about it or what, but he also has this really strange habit of hiding when he's taking a dump. (He's still in diapers, and won't even TRY to use the potty.) He gets really angry if you come near him or look at him when he's doing his business too, and it cracks me up to see him squatted in a corner yelling "Go 'way!" at anyone who happens to walk by.
Saturday night we invited them all over for dinner to give my parents a break. After we'd eaten, I noticed the baby hunkered down under my computer desk.
"I pooping!" he said.
"I see that."
He screamed at me, as he is prone to do anytime he doesn't like a situation, "Go 'way!"
Being used to his attitude, I just shrugged. "No problem."
I joined my sister on the sofa, and after awhile she asked him if he was okay.
"I finish. I come out."
So out he crawled, and he grinned as he continued to crawl over to the couch. The kid looked awfully pleased with himself, and that should have been my first indication that something just wasn't quite right.
She laughed at him, "Are you crawling like a little ba...AHHH! ACK!" She jumped to her feet, jerked him up off the floor, and raced toward the bathroom with him.
I was freaked out for about half a second, and then I saw what was wrong. Poop had exploded out of the kid. It oozed out of the top of his diaper, ran down both legs, and dripped onto the floor. There was a trail of poop from my computer desk to the couch, great big gobs of poop, smears of poop, and a diaper shaped spot where he sat down. I've never seen so much shit in my life.
My sister put the kid in the tub and peeled off his shorts and diaper. Both were running over full of poop. I can't fathom how such a tiny boy could have so much crap inside him. It was Everywhere. I made the mistake of walking in the bathroom door, and immediately felt my stomach clench and my throat close up. I ran back into the living room, gagging and retching, willing myself not to add to the mess by puking everywhere. At first, I felt like a big wimp for being so grossed out, but then I realized that the Shit Monster from Kevin Smith's Dogma had invaded my living room, and that it was completely reasonable to feel physically ill.
After I'd recovered, I got out the carpet cleaner, Lysol, and rags. I managed to scoop up poop from two places before I decided that there was no way in HELL I would be able to scrub up some kid's crap off my floor.
"It's okay, I'll get it," my sister said from the bathroom when I told her I couldn't stand to do the cleaning. "It's different when it's your own kid."
"Let's hope so," I muttered, as I envisioned calling for backup anytime my baby needs a diaper change.
It took her about thirty minutes, but she eventually got the baby washed up, the tub cleaned out, and the poop and stains off the floor. We wrapped the kid in a towel, Toga style, and I silently prayed that he wouldn't need to use the bathroom before his daddy got back with a diaper. (He didn't.)
I don't know what the hell they put in those laxatives, but I do know who I'll go to if I ever need a good cleaning out.