Disclaimer: This is a tragic story involving gastrointestinal issues. Proceed with caution.
My parents are the most epic grandparents you can imagine. They spoil their grandkids a lot. Toys, sugar, junk food, crazy wrestling matches right before bed… the whole nine. So when they’re visiting, we sort of just go with it because, hey, it’s a treat, right?
Well, my parents are visiting us from Texas while my husband is out of town for business. This morning my mother decided to bring our 6-year-old, Grady, to get donuts for everyone. They brought home 3 dozen assorted pastries, including 3 glazed donuts with bright blue icing. Apparently Grady had already called dibs on them. Knock yourself out, kid. I love donuts more than your average person, but I’m not even a little tempted to eat these crazy things. They look disgusting, quite honestly.
So this 6-year-old who barely weighs 40lbs completely obliterates these three donuts. Like, destroys them in 30 seconds flat. And I’m shocked, but also a little impressed and proud.
Our day continues without incident.
We decide that we’re all going to watch Despicable Me 3 in our media room, so I’m obviously tasked with popping several bags of popcorn because what else would Mom do? I, of course, do not actually like popcorn, but evidently I enjoy spending my evening vacuuming up popcorn crumbs and watching my family pick kernels out of their teeth for several hours.
Side bar: yes we are the owners of one of those gigantic circus popcorn machines. And no I don’t use it. Because IT’S THE PRINCIPLE. That is a story for another time.
I run upstairs to make sure Grady is in the media room and has everything he needs before running back downstairs to pop an obscene amount of popcorn and round up grandparents and baby.
Grady: “Come sit by me!”
Me: “Grady, I’m trying to get back downstairs to pop a shit ton of popcorn.”
Grady: “Pleeeeaaase. Just for a second.”
Me: “Ok. But only because I’m a loving and attentive mother.”
Me: (sits down)
Grady: (farts super loudly) “AAAHHAAHAHHAHA!!”
Me: “Wow. You are actually the worst person ever.”
So then I run downstairs, pop all the popcorn, and try to figure out where I went wrong in life that I ended up not only marrying a gassy man, but also producing two extremely gassy and uncaring children. After some deep thought, I run back up the stairs with the popcorn. The old folks are set, the baby is content-ish, but Grady is nowhere to be found.
So I search for him.
The first place I think to look is the bathroom, because hello, he’s disgusting. Sure enough, that’s where he is. His bathroom is attached to his room, and I walk through his room to hear the bathroom vent on, which explains why he couldn’t hear me lovingly screaming his name at the top of my lungs in order to avoid walking across the house. I walk in, and peek into the bathroom, where I see him sitting on the toilet, with his knees up by his ears and his feet on the seat. There is toilet paper EV.ERY.WHERE. We make quick and awkward eye contact, and he immediately shrieks at me to GET OUT. Don’t worry, kiddo, you don’t have to tell me twice.
So I wait outside his room for a painfully long time, while he cries in the bathroom and there’s a lot of commotion. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m not sure I want to know what’s going on.
He comes out of his room, but is wearing no pants, and a fresh pair of underwear. He’s sobbing at this point, and doesn’t want to tell me what happened. He’s worried he’ll “get in trouble.”
Me: “Trust me when I say that whatever was going on in that bathroom is so far beyond the scope of any rules we have in this house, that I don’t even have grounds for being angry at you.”
Grady: (still sobbing) “I pooped. In my underwear. And my pants.”
Me: “Oh… ok… well sometimes that happens. I get it. Can I just check and make sure you’re all cleaned up? And let’s get you some pants.”
So I have him lay on the floor so I can inspect… the area… and make sure I don’t need to wipe better. I immediately notice some blue marks just below his underwear on his butt.
Me: “OH MY GAWD WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?!”
My first thought is, of course, that it’s a bruise and my son is involved in some sort of Kindergarten Fight Club.
Upon closer inspection, it looks to be blue ink. Like he sat on a blue marker, tried to clean it off, but it still left a residue.
Then I move his underwear to see it’s all over his butt. Both cheeks. Completely covered in blue ink residue.
Me: “What… uh… what is going on with your butt here?”
Grady: “THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY BUTT?!”
Me: “No… well… yes…? Was there anything unusual about the poop that happened in your pants? How exactly did you end up pooping in your pants?”
Grady: (with eyes welling up) “Well I was practicing my loud farts,” (duh, Mom) “and I had a real good one in the chamber,” (his dad’s terminology) “but when I pushed it out, poop came out instead. But it was like pee poop. It was like pee came out of my butt. But it was definitely poop.”
Me: (dying a little on the inside) “Was that the only weird thing about it? It was pee poop, and that’s it?”
Grady: “Oh, and it was blue.”
I slowly walk to his dirty clothes hamper, and what do I see? Underwear and jeans. Completely soaked in bright blue pee poop.
So I take baby wipes to my 6-year-old future Fortune 100 CEO’s butt cheeks to clean off the blue residue. It’s not coming off. At all.
Y’all. His whole entire backside is stained blue. From poop. FROM PEE POOP.
I can’t anymore. I just can’t.
And so, I am now spending post-bedtime treating his underwear and pants for stains. Bright blue stains. Bright blue PEE POOP stains.
And yes, we still watched the movie. And yes, everyone still ate all that damn popcorn.