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Wednesday, April 6, 2016

A Shit Story

Wednesdays are my day off. It's the school holidays and my darling Mum is here to look after the kids. It's been wonderful. We are all relaxed, enjoying ourselves and spending quality time together.

We saw a movie this morning and I encouraged Mum to head off afterwards and do some shopping. The kids each had 2 friends coming over so it was going to be a loud, childlike afternoon. She deserved a break.

So the friends come over. 2 brothers, Leo's mates and a brother & sister, Maggie's mates. All easy, relatively quiet, un-argumentative children. My favourite kind. The younger brother of Maggie's mate ditches the girls pretty quick and goes to play xbox with the big boys. All is relatively peaceful for about 35 minutes.

I decide to pop my head in to Leo's room and see how the boys are going.
One of them says
'I smell poop'
The 3 big boys are looking at me in desperation. The smaller guy looks anywhere but at us and the first opportunity he can dashes out the door.
'Maybe it's just a fart?' I say, then on inhale realize that it's much more than a fart.
It's possibly a terrible thing.
I enter the girls room and the first thing the sister tells me is 'I smell something bad'.
I say 'Do you know where your brother is? Is he ok?'
'He's behind the door' they tell me and I see him standing, frozen behind the door.

I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge that I dealt with the following situation kindly, quietly and calmly. At no point did that poor child feel any worse about his situation because of me. I was a fucking saviour. God may it never happen but if my own kids ever shit themselves ANYWHERE may they have a sweet kind Mum angel such as myself to sort that shit out. Pun intended.

So I gently and quietly ask the boy to come with me to the bathroom. On entry I see he has already been in there which explains the shit explosions in, on and around the toilet. His pair of shit ridden jocks are stuffed in the corner of the room, I follow the trail of brown splashes to find them.

I'm unsure where to start, but not for a minute does he see my distress. I turn the shower on, hot and fast and throw his jocks in there. I explain I would like him to have a quick shower to make sure all the poo is gone. He needs to remove his shirt, but not his shorts, he can take them off once he is in there and clean himself properly.

I pull the shower curtain across so he can deal with his shit appropriately and I can deal with the rest of it. I'm dry retching as quietly as possible, spraying bleach on each and every surface, one hand stuffed over my nose the other scrubbing, wiping, rinsing. I clean and clean and clean until thank god all I can smell is bleach. I fucking love bleach. What a glorious, rewarding smell.

He gets out of the shower and I wrap him up in a towel, give him some slightly too big shorts and remind him to wash his hands again. I ask if he would like me to call his Dad to pick him up? No, he says, I want to stay. One part of me thinks this is great, because he is in a safe space and he likes it here, the other part of me is having a massive panic attack thinking fuck fuck fuck if there is a Round Two I cannot handle it. What if it gets on the furniture?

Anyway he stays, doesn't shit on anything (else) and I'm impressed with all the kids reactions (pretty much nothing and the big boys even let him back in to play xbox). I wash my hands about 16 times and drink several drinks that evening in an attempt to rid myself of the visions, the terrible flashbacks.

I scrub the bathroom floor one more time before bed, then I came in to write this. What a fucking experience. I fucking nailed it. Today I was a queen, a goddess, a saint. I never, ever, ever want to live through that again, but in the meantime, I'm a superstar. The more praise I heap on myself the further away from shit sprays I move. Cheers.

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