So I'm sitting in the office this morning going over some emails, updating my calendar, and checking out the latest celebrity gossip, when my sweet angel of a child (and I shall henceforth refer to him as angel child because he now sleeps through the night! woo hoo!), Tyler, starts climbing the stairs shouting, "WOOK MOMMY, WOOOOK!". Most of the time when he begins his ascent with these words it's because he's discovered a new toy (or a toy he hasn't seen in a while) and he wants to show someone...anyone!..his newfound treasure.
He comes running at me in the office proudly displaying his bounty as I scoop him up into my arms and say, "What is it honey? What did you find?!" Only then does the smell hit me. The foul, rotten, garbage, stink bomb smell. I peer down into my cherubic child's chubby fist, and lo and behold....HE HAS FOUND POOOOP! (insert choir of angels sound here). Apparently, my devil dog (who shall henceforth be referred to as such, UNTIL SHE STOPS CRAPPING IN MY HOUSE!) decided to take a dump at the bottom of the stairs, even though I JUST LET HER OUT 10 MINUTES AGO.
Here's where I have to explain that I am usually AWESOME when dealing with a crisis....blood, bruises, skinned knees...no problem. But when it comes to poop...I am not a rational parent. A rational parent would react calmly and take the child to the bathroom to clean up the mess. Since I make no such claims of rationality when poop is involved, I did what I do best....FREAKED. OUT. I ran around in circles holding Tyler, with the poop still firmly in his grasp, not knowing which way to go first. I was screaming out loud, "POOP. AHHH! YOU HAVE POOP IN YOUR HAND! DOG POOP! GAHHHH!"
I finally managed to come to my senses and went into the bathroom, pried the poop from his little hand, and threw it in the toilet. I promptly threw him in the bathtub and scrubbed him until his skin came off (not really, don't call child services on me).
Why do I have a feeling this is only the beginning?