"Poo-prints"

Last week, I wrote about my youngest son eating a spoon (yes it was plastic, and yes, he is fine). At the time, I remember thinking, "Well, this is definitely one for the baby book." And I stupidly thought we would have a break from the chaos since that was such an outlandish situation.

What a sweet, innocent fool I was. Because apparently my son somehow read that blog post and took it as a personal challenge.

Yesterday, I made a critical parenting error.

I talked to a friend. That's it... That was my mistake.

I wasn't gone for hours. I wasn't on vacation. I wasn't even hiding from my children in the pantry, I was simply having a conversation with another mom who dared to stop by. Unfortunately, my youngest child interpreted my divided attention as an invitation to begin what can only be described as a crime spree.

My husband likes to do home improvement projects. (Notice I did not say that he COMPLETES the projects.) So, my house is a perpetual construction project with hundreds of random tools I am constantly having to clean up. And if there is one thing I've learned about my youngest son, it's that he possesses a supernatural ability to locate any object he absolutely should not have - such as said tools, remote controls, scissors, loose screws, things that somehow fell behind furniture back in 2019, and now, permanent markers.

At some point during my conversation, my oldest son appeared beside me looking deeply concerned. You know that look kids get when they're debating whether they should report something? The look that says, "I don't want to be a snitch, but I also don't want you to think I did it?"

"Mama," PJ said carefully, "I think T did something bad."

Now, parents know there are levels to that statement. Sometimes "something bad" means someone stole a fruit snack. Sometimes it means somebody colored on a piece of paper they weren't supposed to. But this tone? This tone said, "Prepare yourself." So I followed him.

Friends. I was not prepared.

Permanent marker was everywhere. Walls. Floor. Toys. Tables. Shelves. Random surfaces I didn't even realize could be colored on, and even a very bold artistic statement on the ceiling. The child had managed to redecorate the house with confidence. And he wasn't hiding it. He even brought me the dang marker, but ONLY BECAUSE he was upset he got ink on his hand. He wasn't even remotely concerned about the drawings or my sanity. In fact, he was almost proud.

I was still trying to mentally process the marker situation when I noticed something else. A smell. Parents know that smell that immediately triggers suspicion. I looked at my youngest sweetturd. He looked at me. And suddenly I realized this situation was about to get significantly worse.

Because while he had apparently been redesigning the interior of our home, he had also pooped his pants. Now, a reasonable person might stop there and think, "I should probably take a deep breath and respond like a composed and mature adult."  A reasonable person might even seek assistance... My husband quite literally was just walking in the door from work. To which I simply said, "Take your son upstairs for a bath PLEASE."

I motioned to the crime scene. There were footprints. Poo-prints. Tiny little tracks leading across the floor like some horrifying nature documentary. There was marker. There was property damage. There was emotional damage.

I stood there staring at my child, trying to figure out how he had managed to create so many separate emergencies at the exact same time. My husband smartly did not ask questions. He just said, "Yep, " and scooped him up and whisked him upstairs to a much needed bath.

Somewhere in the middle of it all was my oldest child taking advantage of this opportunity to seem like the perfect angel. He smiled, leaned on me sweetly and said, "Can we go watch a movie?" Listen buddy, Mama needs a MINUTE, so we sure can.

By the end of the day, walls were wiped, floors were scrubbed, clothes were washed, everything within a 3-mile radius was disinfected, and every life choice was questioned.

And as I collapsed onto the couch that evening, exhausted and defeated, I looked over at my sleeping youngest child on the monitor. He had a little smile on his face even in his sleep. The same sweet smile that tricks strangers into telling me how adorable he is. The same smile that makes grandparents forget every destructive thing he's ever done. The smile of someone who knows he will absolutely do something worse next week.

So if anyone needs me, I'll be following him around with disinfecting wipes, a magic eraser, and the constant awareness that the spoon incident was never the peak, and quite frankly, I am not sure if we will ever reach that peak. 

xoxo

Madi