I am alone tonight because Duncan is working late. Owen and I had a great afternoon, much of it spent outside, shovelling mounds of snow off the deck to help it melt and looking in the flower beds for baby flowers (floflos). I even read a magazine in the sunlight.
Owen has a bath every night as part of a bedtime ritual; in general, he loves his baths and we love them too. Tonight’s bath was especially slip-slidey slippery, excited, let’s try swimming and splashing… I sprayed bath water in my face and splashed some more on Owen’s face. His hair was already soaked from his swimming maneuvers…… and then, under the bubbles, I noticed some dirt. I swished the water, thinking, could all this have come from between his toes (sock fluff?), or was one of his bath toys growing copious quantities of algae? It took me so long to figure out this puzzle that I swished the water around quite a bit with my hand, until it dawned on me.
I think I screamed. I do that. I hauled Owen out of the bathtub and left him naked and shivering on the bath mat. I drained the water and in my frenzy to get as much poop as possible out of the tub, started scooping it up with paper towels and throwing them in the toilet. I know, in the back of my head I knew I was going to block the toilet, but what do you do? What does one do? I flushed. Blocked. Then I realised my face was full of bath water. When did I splash it? I scrubbed my face with soap. I scooped more out of the bathtub, ran the shower to flush down some residue, scrubbed that tub, and got Owen back in it to scrub him and soap him more vigorously than ever before… I got a little carried away, and at some point his laughter turned into tears, but we got through it, and I got him towelled off and diapered. I asked him to please please tell me if he has to do this again, making him repeat the word “poop” over and over like some crazy mantra. He was laughing again, and so was I. At some point I realised I had popped his pacifier from the bathwater (then presumed clean-ish) into his mouth so hauled it out (with another scream) and insisted on some heavy-duty tooth brushing. I changed my clothes, fearing that the splashing had sprayed contaminants on me… I unblocked the toilet.
Calm, finally, we read some stories together. I sniffed his (CLEAN) hair, hoping I had done a thorough job. I soaked his bath toys in a bleach solution.
I do so hope this is the only time I have to deal with this (I hear) inevitable (and disgusting) event.