I plopped the Kaiser into the bath. With him happily playing in a mountain of bubbles, I turned on the shower. Normally, I put the lid down on the toilet, grab an Entertainment Weekly or the well-worn Buddhism and the Twelve Steps, and settle in for the usual 30-minute splash/scream extravaganza. Had I stuck with my routine, I might have avoided a shitty hand.
The Kaiser turns his back to me, running a rubber Thomas over the edge of the tub. I take the opportunity to yank off my jeans, tear of my shirt and hop into a freezing shower before he turns back toward me. Uncomfortable. He’s just started the weird stares. He ogles. He points out the obvious. Yep, momma has nipples. No, I don’t have a wee wee. Suffice it to say, we’ve begun a new era of modesty.
I shower quickly, wiping the steam from the door to peer at him in the mirror. As I turn off the spray and squeeze the excess water from my hair, I smell something. Something not good. Something you should never, ever smell in the shower. Poop. It’s faint, though, and I actually stopped to ask myself if I somehow farted and forgot. What kind of logic is that? Fart and forget? Nope. I didn’t. Cracking the shower door to reach my towel, I smell it again. Stronger.
What the hell? I scrunch my nose, wrap the towel around me and step out.
“Momma, I didn’t poop in the bathtub,” He proclaims decisively.
“Oh dear. “ I scan the water but see nothing but fluffy, deceptive white bubbles. “Cooooole. Did you poo? It’s ok, but did you?”
“Uhh.” He begins pushing the bubbles from the surface, searching.
It appears, floating like a glob of lava lamp goo. Brown, smelly lava lamp goo.
“Oh shiiiiii.” Without forethought, I reach into the water, hands together, cupped. I scoop the turd out, gagging and lunge for the toilet. The Kaiser stands, screaming.
“I pooped! Mommy, there’s poop. There’s poop on mah FOOT.” He’s covered in germy bubbles, yelping and pointing toward the now ominous water.
Turning on the sink with my chin and dousing my hands with anti-bacterial soap, I try to reassure him.
“Dude, it’s ok. It was your own poop! It’s alright. Everyone has accidents.”
He wails. I remove him and empty the bathwater, and thankfully find no more surprises. After a spray down and scrub with cleaner, I rinse and begin to refill his bath. He stands beside me, wrapped in a towel.
“Momma. Next time I’ll poop in the potty.” He grins.