On Saturday, we had a jam packed morning that consisted of Ryan preparing for his upcoming business trip and me preparing myself for a 25 minute YouTube workout. Before you rush to judgment about which one of us had the more stressful morning, I’d like to say that my morning involved something called “jump squats.” My lady parts suffered.
Anyway, after we went our separate ways, we came back together because his parents were coming over and that meant: attempting to make the house look like we don’t have two kids and then after 15 minutes of cleaning, yell “we have two kids, they’ll understand if it’s dirty.” In the process, Oliver had to nap before their arrival so they’d get to socialize with a happy-Oliver and not a tyrannical-Oliver.
While Ryan was downstairs not loading the dishwasher (source of a later argument—clearly I’m not bitter), I put Oliver down for a nap. I changed his diaper and realized that he was wearing jeans. Napping in jeans seemed wildly uncomfortable to me. When fantasizing about a nap, I’ve never imagined myself curled up in my bed wearing skinny jeans. I can’t even properly bend my knees in my jeans without feeling like my ass is going to literally explode like an overstuffed cannoli. Now granted, I don’t get the opportunity to ever nap so I’d take a nap while wearing sandpaper underwear and a wet wool bra, but that’s just me. Oliver should sleep like a king.
A comfortable, half-nude king.
So I didn’t put his pants back on.
Usually, he fusses for approximately 28 seconds (long enough to make me feel like a neglectful monster) and then passes out. However, this time he was talking nonstop to himself in his crib, cooing and walking around the perimeter of his crib. Since he wasn’t crying, we figured he would eventually tire himself out.
After about 20 minutes, he did.
He slept his usual length and after my in-laws arrived, we heard him stirring upstairs. Ryan ran up to grab him and shortly after opening the door, calmly called out my name.
“Allee. Hey, Allee. Come up here real quick.”
I knew something had happened, but seeing as how Ryan wasn’t panicking, I figured it was something mild like Oliver getting his chubby thigh stuck in the crib slot or perhaps I accidentally locked the cat in his room (not as bad as when I locked her in the pantry for 7 hours while I was at work—whatever). But it wasn’t either of those…it was…it was worse.
I walked into his room and there was Oliver bouncing in his crib with his exposed little junk because he had taken off his diaper, but that part is kind of cute.
What wasn’t cute was the LITERAL pile of shit in the corner of his crib. My poor child wasn’t bored or not tired before he fell asleep, he was squatting like an abandoned peasant in the middle of a field pooping.
And then he curled up in the opposite end of the bed and fell asleep.
My son slept next to his own feces. Even dogs know better not to shit in their crates, but there’s my pride and joy baby human whipping off his diaper to take a freedom dump on his precious robot crib sheets.
I wish I could have been more surprised or disgusted, but motherhood kind of desensitizes your soul. What’s appalling and gross before children is suddenly laughable and endearing after children. Oliver could grow up to be the CEO of his own company, President of the United States, a doctor who rids the world of disease or a lawyer that Lindsey Lohan has on retainer, but to me he will always be my little man.
My little man who took a shit in his bed and didn’t give a shit.