Every parent of a young child or a child who was once young has at least one excrement story. Some of us have loads of stories full of sh**. C'mon~ you know it's true. If you happen to be reading this blog and do not fit into this category-- or were not a Peace Corps volunteer who regularly sat at lunch with other PCVs talking about one's funky digestive system while living abroad--here is your warning. Stop reading. Stop reading now.
OK, for the rest of you, I have two especially ugly tales, one involving one of my twins and the mesh of a Pack n' Play that causes me full-body shuddering just remembering. The second incident occurred just last Thursday with my friend F. I guess a few days have gone by now that I can write about it without crying--or gagging--or at least, handing in my resignation (I just can't do this gig any longer).
F has recently discovered that he can climb out of his crib. We tried to keep this a secret from him for the past months, hoping to make it until the summer, well contained behind bars at naptime and bedtime. No longer. It goes without saying that naptimes have changed or I guess I could just say that naps are no longer. I tried for a week. I put him down, made sure both his (mangy) bears were with him and threw in a favorite I Spy book for extra incentive to stay put. Within moments, however, escape plans were hatched and executed and suddenly, a creaking of the bedroom door and, through the glass French doors, that tell-tale, sticky-up, reddish hair would appear. I would pick him up and plop him back in his crib. Up and out he would climb-- again and again--no matter how many times I would put him back down. Finally, an hour or so of this, it would become clear (to me anyway; F knew all along) that no napping was going to occur.
After four days of this back and forth, a twist in the plot. A stuck bedroom door. I put him down, could hear the escape, pulling at the bedroom door, and then murmurings of "Mama, door. Mama, door." I hadn't barred the door. It doesn't have a lock. I guess it was just sticky and hard to open that day. "Ah," I thought though, "this could work to my advantage" and chose not to open his bedroom door. No, it wouldn't cause him to climb back into his crib, but he could play around in his room. He would be safe. There would be some enforced quiet-playtime. Sure, the room would be a mess, but that's no different from most days.
So I left him in there.
I heard him playing. I heard him calling out. I left him in there.
I left him in there for a good hour. What I had not anticipated, however, while becoming quite a crib climber, he, too, hit the I-can-take-off-all-my-clothes-and-diaper-as-well milestone.
Yup. Think healing mud that folks pay money to have spread over their arms, legs, torso and face.
Except this wasn't mud.
And it sure was not healing.
He didn't seem traumatized in the least. I, however, am still having nightmares.