August 23, 2010
This weekend, my sister Amy and her new husband Warren came down from Washington D.C. for a quick visit.
They hadn't been in our house for more than five minutes before I begged them to watch my kids for a couple hours so my husband and I could go out to dinner.
"I hope everything goes all right," I said to my husband nervously as I bit my fingernails.
He told me to stop stressing. "They'll all be in bed in a half hour," he told me. "What can go wrong?"
When I walked in the door an hour later, the first thing I noticed was that the washing machine was running. The second was the odor.
My husband and I scaled the staircase two steps at a time. We found my sister and her husband standing next to the epicenter of the fumes. They were wearing rubber gloves and trying not to breathe.
Several minutes after putting my almost two-year-old down to bed, the dutiful aunt and uncle went to check on their young charge. When they cracked open the bedroom door, my son threw a large, handmade turd at them.
"It was EVERYWHERE!" my sister cried. By the time we got home, the mess was 90% cleaned up. My brother-in-law marveled at how much solid waste such a small person could produce.
I apologized profusely, of course, and suggested dessert as a diversion.
My sister sent me to the store for ice cream. "Get anything," she said, "but chocolate."
Although they may be gross, my sister NEEDS to hear your stories. I told her that exploring one's excrement was a virtual rite of passage into toddlerhood.