Revenge or There is No Such Thing as a Clean Turd

Last night, having put a tantrum throwing toddler out of my mind with a stiff glass of wine and a CSI rerun (because nothing makes you forget an embarrassing grocery store moment like a dead hooker) I dozed off to dream of the Colts winning another Super Bowl.

At exactly 12:24 a.m. I heard, “MOM, MOM.”

I sat up startled and almost head-butted Keenan who was standing over me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked panicked.

“Colton’s awake,” he said.

“O.K.” I said and started to get out of bed to go retrieve him.

I was just starting to wonder why Colton didn’t come into my room by himself as he usually does, when Keenan said, “And he’s covered in crap.”

“What kind of crap?” I asked. Praying silently that by crap he meant anything other than crap.

“Crap, crap,” he answered with a giggle.

How is crap still funny at 12:24 a.m.?

I grabbed my robe and was on my way out of our bedroom when J sat up and asked, “Do you need help?”

“I don’t know,” I responded. Which is code for, If you don’t get your shiny ass out of bed and come and help me, I will use your pillow case to wipe his crap covered ass.

Because he is smart, he hopped out of bed and followed me down the stairs. And thank the mother of Febreze he did. As we hit the bottom step the stink, stank, stunk of our downstairs had us both gagging.

It was at the first dry heave that Colton rounded the corner. And. You know what? For the first time in Keenan’s 15 years he wasn’t exaggerating. Colton was literally COVERED in crap.

I found two spots under each arm pit that were mostly crap free, placed two fingers there, lifted him up and plopped him into the tub while J and Keenan headed off to Colt’s bedroom. Seconds later I heard a round of dry heaves and peeked around the corner to see Keenan go running from Colton’s room.

I was half assed dumping a plastic cupload of water at a time over Colton who was standing crap-covered in the tub and all I could think was, Why in the hell didn’t we put one of those hand held sprayers in here.

I studied him for a brief moment longer having no idea how I was going to get all that crap off of his body without touching it. I heard another dry heave coming from the bedroom and since I still had no good plan of crap cleaning attack, I decided to go check out the bedroom in case I wanted that job instead.

“I’ll be right back,” I said and handed Colton the plastic cup and headed to his bedroom.

One step inside the door told me I had chosen the right job for me. I looked around the room. It smelled like I had shoved my head up a horses ass and there was shit EVERYWHERE. I quietly tiptoed back to the bathroom unnoticed.

With renewed vision, I dove in with my bare hands and a bottle of soap. And. By bottle of soap, I mean a BOTTLE of soap. Colton just stood there shivering and staring straight ahead.

“What happened sweetie?” I asked him through gags.

“I don’t know,” he responded dumbfounded. “I was asleep and then I was awake and I had pooped.”

Of course. That explains everything.

I finished cleaning Colt, just as J finished cleaning the piles of poo off the floor and the one out of the trash can, which Colton so sweetly put there in an effort to help clean up. J put the sheets and Colton’s clothes in the washing machine.

Exhausted, we all lumbered up the stairs and into our bed where we settled in for a long night of boxing with Colton while we all jockeyed for position. This morning I awoke, started the laundry and then set out for a day of errands.

This evening, worked and ready to sit down for a glass of wine, I forced myself to go change out the laundry first. I opened the door to the washing machine and was hit with an O-DARE. But. Dreaming of my glass of wine, I convinced myself it was just my imagination and knew the faster I got those damn clothes in the dryer, the faster I would be sipping my very own red glass of hummingbird nectar.

After a couple of shirts, I started to notice a brown flaky substance falling off of the clothes. Weird, I thought. And. Kept going. About two-thirds of the way through emptying the washing machine, the stench started to get worse and the brown flakes on the floor were piling up. I could no longer deny the thought that was nagging at the back of brain. Crap. There is more crap.

I emptied the rest of the clothes from the dryer and sure as my rug doesn’t match my drapes, there it sat. One large shiny and now clean (as clean as crap can be) piece of crap. OH. MY. GAW. My hands and the laundry room floor were covered in shit flakes.

As I stood there gagging all I could think was, “This is because of the stickers, isn’t it?”