Earlier this week, after a crazy day at work, I rushed home to be with my sons, Ben and Henry, ages 4 and 2, respectively. It had been a rewarding day professionally, but it was a Monday, and Mondays are rarely wholly good. Such was the case with this one, when just minutes after I put the kids in the bath, I smelled something—and it was not the lavender-scented bubble bath I’d just added.
Oh, yes, Henry cheerily informed me, he’d just pooped in the tub. Thinking he surely meant that he needed to poop—not that he’d just done it (because neither he nor Ben had ever pooped in the tub before)—I lifted him out of the tub and onto the toilet. Nothin’. At that point, Ben was shrieking and had launched himself out of the tub, pointing to a dark mass under the bubbles. Oh, no.
After getting both kids cleaned, dried, and dressed while the water drained, I set about cleaning the tub, to the sounds of Ben signing from the next room. He had just made up a song with a very important message to his brother—and all little siblings out there. Here is his public service announcement, with Henry as his back-up dancer:
That night was definitely my grossest kid moment in recent memory (forgetting about all of the squirts and spurts of various bodily fluids from those long-ago newborn days). What’s your grossest kid moment?