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what to do when your child poops in the museum

Warning: this story contains poop. And profanity. If either offends you, look away. But if you like laughing at the follies of others (me), read on…

I was feeling indestructible. We just returned from vacation—a nice break from the everyday grind—and I was overwhelmed with gratitude for being able to have this stay-at-home-mom gig. I chose this, I thought, and how lucky am I to be able to spend every day with these two little angels? They poop unicorns and lilies and their urine smells of cupcakes.

So instead of spending our first day back from vacation catching up on laundry and grocery shopping, I decided to take my darling cherubs to the Children’s Museum. To hell with being sensible! I announced. We might not have a fruit or vegetable in the house, but today we’ll have FUN! 

The day was going swimmingly. Charlie (15 months) was toddling around with glee and her older sister Lucy (3) had found a slide that fascinated her more than the iPad. But all at once my tranquility was broken when Lucy asked from atop the slide,

“Mom, did you bring any extra panties?”

“No. No I didn’t, you little shit.”

But what I really said was, “Yes I did, sweetie. Did you poop?” Because she was making the squeezey face. (If you’re a parent you know exactly what the squeezey face is).

I felt her bottom (sidebar: at what point in parenting, I wonder, is it no longer appropriate to squeeze your child’s butt to check for fecal matter?). Inside her panties was a quarry of rock-hard turds the size of dimes. Shit. She’s dehydrated.

Just kidding. Because right at that moment I didn’t give a lick about her hydration. It was more like Shit. She has panties full of tiny turds. Now I have to clean this crap up, goddamit.

“Okay, Lu. Let’s take you to the bathroom and change your panties.”

I lifted her off the slide and tore Charlie away from the fish tank. In all her toddler glory she threw a tantrum the size of Texas and pulled the Gumby trick, and I nearly dropped her to the floor.

As we made our way out of the exhibit and toward the restroom, Lucy exclaims,

“Mom, it tickles!”

I look down. “What tickles?”

She’s squirming and giggling and grabbing her ankles.

“It’s on my leg!”

Mother fucking fuck fuck fucking fucker, I say in my head, because I know exactly what is on her leg, and I have packed everything in the diaper bag but my flask of vodka.

I lean down and, from the outside of her pants, locate the rock-hard-size-of-a-dime turd that has jumped ship from her panties and attempted to make its way down to her socks. I squish it to the inside of her pants so it doesn’t fall to the floor, which in retrospect I think is a pretty cool MacGyver-type move and I should receive some sort of awesome mom award for. The trophy would look like a pile of rock-hard turds.

Tiny paleontologist

Ten yards later, we’re almost to the restroom. Lucy feels a tickle again, and turns her tiny blonde head back in the direction from which we’ve come. There—sitting in the middle of the museum—is a lone turd. My hands are full with Gumby Baby, and I have no way to get the wipes out of my purse to pick up the lone turd that is sitting in the middle of the packed Children’s Museum.

I can see the family restroom: the sign says vacant. In a panic I stuff the girls inside, tell them to stay put, and dash back to the turd, which is miraculously still there and hasn’t been mistaken for a hunk of Baby Ruth by some unsuspecting kid. I pick up the turd with a sanitizing wipe, scrub down the floor with another, and then run back to the restroom.

Tinier paleontologist

Once inside, I discover that the “family” restroom is not your standard run-of-the-mill deal. It has two stalls, a changing table, three sinks, and three urinals about a foot off the ground. Apparently it’s built for the Brady Bunch.

Charlie, in the ten seconds I’ve been gone, has removed all three urinal cakes and is making a game of sticking her arm as far into the pipes as far as she can reach (little boys don’t flush urinals, by the way—I suspected this all along). I stare at her in amazement as she looks up at me, smiles, picks up a urinal cake off the floor, sticks the rim of its plastic cagey thing in her mouth, and walks into a stall. I run after her, yank the nasty urinal cake out of her gross little paws, and resolve that we are all taking 27 baths in rubbing alcohol when we get home.

Meanwhile, Lucy is running around in circles, leaving a trail of turds in her wake. I decide to corral her first, since Urinal Cake-Eater will only go for the gusto again if she’s not in my arms. I get Rabbit-Turd Pooper (do you like how my little angels have less charming names by this point in the story?) clean and in fresh clothes. I get Urinal Cake-Eater clean and in fresh clothes. I pick up the restroom, wash my hands 98 times, wash their hands 345 times, and douse us in hand sanitizer until we’re high from the fumes.

When we emerge from the bathroom I was off my high horse and back to (gross, putrid, stinky) reality. Being a mom can be completely gross. And just when you think you’re doing everything right, they’re leaving a Hansel & Gretel trail of turds through your favorite play area and trying to hold hands with China through urinal plumbing.

In the future I’ll think of that day and laugh. Just not today. Or tomorrow. But maybe in a few months, after several glasses of wine with my girlfriends. But for now, I just need another vacation.