Skip to main content

I shit you not

Some of you may recall me talking about a relatively new friend who lives up the street and who who hurt my feelings last summer when she told me my son was too rough to play with her son. We took a yearlong play-break but have recently reconciled (mostly). My son adores her son, and we just returned from the boy's birthday party. And any hard feelings I've been harboring this past year are quickly dissipating. Because my son just shit on their playset.

That's right, sports fans. Due to an unforeseen conglomeration of novice-parent choices (I'm chalking it up to half a can of mandarin oranges for breakfast, three organic tangerine juice boxes and a bowl full of blueberries at the party, and a worthless pull-up diaper), Sweet Boy had a brief-yet-powerful bout of diarrhea while playing. And before he or I knew what was happening, there was a big ol' puddle of watery poo at the top of the birthday boy's fancy slide and a couple of kids yelling "ewww!" Yikes. I'll be forever haunted by the look of confusion and horror on my son's face when he looked down at the grossness running down his leg.

To her credit, though, the hostess cleaned it all up with her younger child in the sling on her hip and a smile on her face as I whisked Sweet Boy home to clean him up...and decide if either of us were too mortified to show our faces again. Sweet Boy insisted that the call of the cupcakes was much stronger than the embarrassment, and I didn't want him to feel like he was being punished for a potty mishap outside his control, so we did return. And although I was a pariah to the other mothers, the hostess was completely congenial and acted as if nothing had happened. Which I am extremely grateful for because it spared Sweet Boy's already fragile potty ego.

So maybe we can be friends after all. Who knew all it would take was a poop mishap?

Comments

  1. Is it wrong that I'm giggling a little? Not because of what happened to you and your little man but because of your amusing way of conveying the story.

    I can only guess that your hostess has endured a similarly embarrassing situation. Parenthood seems to be the great equalizer. For any parent who hasn't been mortified by something his/her child has done purposefully or by accident, it is only a matter of time.

    ReplyDelete
  2. This comment has been removed by the author.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Grace happens

Today Honey's roommate in room 364 at Maine Medical Center was discharged. Some other day I'll tell you about why Honey is in the hospital again, but this story is about the roommate because it's way more interesting. Let's call him Elton, because all I really know about him is he plays guitar in an Elton John tribute band and he's originally from the very northern part of England, bordering Scotland. (Or as Honey described it, "that place in England where the Roman Empire decided, nope, those Celts are crazy, and put up a wall.")

Elton was in room 364 before Honey arrived, and what struck me immediately, besides his delightful accent and soothing Liam-Neeson-esque voice, was his gentle, good-natured manner. He was going through heck from a botched surgery and compartment syndrome - pain and gore and fear of losing the use of his dominant hand - yet he spoke kindly and softly to every person who came into his room. Every time a nurse walked in, Elton gree…

Math lessons

I was really great at school as a kid...but I'm really lousy at school as a parent. And I was reminded once again of this while sitting at my son's conference yesterday.

Seventh grade has been hard on all of us. Beyond the obvious physical changes -- Happy has grown at least 5" since this summer and now looks me in the eye (yeah, remember I'm super tall!), his voice is weird, he can't get out of his own way -- we're all trying to navigate his ever-changing need for independence. His teachers want him to take more responsibility for his learning, which in theory sounds like a great plan for all kids at this age; they have to not only learn how to learn but also learn how to advocate for their learning.

In reality, though, when you're the world's most laid-back 12-almost-13-year-old who really only wants to listen to music, play drums, video games, and action figures, taking responsibility and advocating for your learning is not highest priority. In fact…

Happy curls?

I dreaded the passing of the peace each Sunday when I was a little girl. Every week the old church ladies would comment about my hair...
    "Shirley Temple curls!" they cooed; I didn't know who Shirley Temple was.
    "So soft!" they petted; I didn't want their wrinkly, gnarled fingers on my head.
    "I pay a lot of money to have hair like yours!" they exclaimed; I couldn't figure out why anyone would pay money for frizzy, fluffy, brillo-pad hair.

I hated my curls. I felt embarrassed by my hair -- it was short, kinky, cut badly -- quite different from the long straight hair my friends all wore at the time in my life when I just wanted to fit in. Oh, how I wanted a ponytail! Or a braid...to braid my hair on a Sunday morning with ribbons hanging down, that was a dream.

Today during the passing of the peace, I found myself next to one of the older ladies in our church. Every week I marvel at her elegance, the way the dresses, the slow and grace…