*Disclaimer: if you just ate, are currently eating, or ever plan to want to eat again, close your Web browser now. You can thank me later. For the rest of you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I have something to share with you. And, there’s no easy way to say it. I could try to break it to you gently, but really there’s no way to sugarcoat this puppy.
My baby ate his poop!
Exclamation point. Exclamation point. Exclamation point.
Yes, it’s true. And, now that I’ve shared that, I’d like to jump in a hole and pull the hole in after me. But, then you’d never get the down and (truly) dirty details of what happened. So, I’ll ‘fess up, and THEN, I’ll go hole hunting.
It all started out innocently enough. It was an afternoon much like any other. A diaper-less Jacob and I were sitting outside on the deck playing in his plastic pool. After a while, the sun began to set, and I pulled Jacob out of the water, planning on taking him upstairs to proceed with our usual bath time routine. But as Fate would have it—cruel, cruel thing that She is—rather than taking the route to the stairs that goes by our living room, I decided to pass through the kitchen instead.
During my walk-through, I noticed that I had left Jacob’s pureed baby food out on the counter. I set him down figuring that a minute in the nude wouldn’t hurt.
Being a little OCD when it comes to cleaning the kitchen, one thing led to another and before I know it, I had not only put his food back in the fridge, I had washed a few dishes, and wiped down the counters.
Mistake #3. (See a trend developing?)
It was about this time that I realized that my little boy was being quiet. Too quiet for comfort. I knew he had been playing on the pantry floor—one of his favorite spots—so I peeked my head around the door, and though his back was facing me, I caught a quick glimpse of the side of his face and noticed he was chewing. I figured he had found a rogue Gerber puff.
I turned around to finish up the last of the cleaning, but something—call it woman’s intuition or mother’s instinct—beckoned me to take another look. I bent over next to him to see for sure what he was munching on.
That’s when I saw them.
Greenish, orange tell-tale marks around his mouth. And, his hands. And, his toes. And, his belly. And, then the floor. (It was a peas and carrots medley if you were wondering. I know. You weren’t.)
It took a second to sink in, then my thoughts went something like this: asdflkjtksdflkjtslfkly. Then this: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. Then this: Ohmygoshmykidatepoopwhatnow???
Then, without further thought, I scooped Jacob up—who, by the way, was having a grand time smushing the poo between his fingers by now—and rushed to the stairs. (By way of the living room, of course.)
I tossed him into the tub, scrubbed him down, then brushed his teeth. Next, I scrubbed down the tub, the kitchen floor, and myself.
That’s when I finally had a moment to let the past half-hour sink in. First, I considered the gross-out factor, then wondered if his unscheduled snack could make him sick. Then, I laughed a hearty laugh at the ridiculousness of it all because when you’re a new mama and your baby eats his poop, there’s not much else that you can do.
And, since everyone knows that it's more fun to laugh when you're not alone, help a sister out and tell me: What’s been your worst motherhood faux pas or craziest mama moment? Don’t be shy. It can’t be much worse than Jacob’s poop-eating experience, but if it is, I’ll gladly relinquish my hole to you.