Seven o’clock in the morning: the usual Piggle wake-time. Generally speaking, our mornings are fairly routine. Breakfast, poop, play, snack, poop….you get the point.
I thrive on schedules and ordered chaos. I don’t like when a wrench is thrown into my otherwise monotonous day. Now that I think about it, though, I probably should just toss out my to-do lists and agenda. As we all know, luck is never on my side. This morning is a perfect example of this.
We, meaning Piggle, woke up at our usual, way-too-damn-early time. I was subjected to my crack of dawn dose of drooly kisses and slaps on the head. Once I was coherent enough to actually peel myself out from beneath my duvet, I noticed a very pungent odor, emanating from the boy’s backside. Figuring it was to be just another gassy day, I scooped him up and headed down for breakfast. That’s when I came to the realization that this would not, in fact, be an average day at all.
Piggle was soaked. After a thorough investigation (a.k.a. a quick sniff), I deduced that he was not, as first assumed, covered in pee, but with the most rancid poop I have ever had the displeasure of encountering. I am not even sure this can be classified as feces. It was more along the lines of ectoplasm! Not only was he soaked, head-to-toe in poltergeist slime, through our brief contact, I, too, was now tainted.
Into the shower we went, pyjamas and all, to decontaminate. After half a bottle of body wash and a gallon of bleach, we were squeaky clean. We resumed our earlier task of food consumption, and everything seemed to be back on track. Breakfast was uneventful, and I set the boy up with his trains while I tidied the kitchen.
Funny, it seems that most Piggle-disasters happen when I’m elbow deep in dirty dish water. And so followed the gut-wrenching sound of diaper tabs being torn from their secure, poop-containing position.
In the mere moments it took me to place the sound, jolt into action, and round the corner to the living room, I realized I was too late. Not only was I assaulted by the tremendous smell, but Piggle came toddling over to me with a very literal shit-eating grin, covered from the tips of his Alfalfa hair to just below his fat kankles, in an extremely brightly-hued goo.
Upon further inspection, I realized that he’d decided to try his hand at finger painting. I kid you not, it was like a scene from a horror movie—only, this was way more terrifying because I couldn’t just turn off the television and forget it. This is one of those moments in your life that etches itself permanently into your mind. I will see it every time I close my eyes!
Now, I love Piggle. Truly, I do, but in that instant, I don’t think I’ve hated anyone more. It wasn’t even 8 A.M.!!! It took 2 hours, another bottle of bleach, a mixture of comet and lysol, and a few SOS pads…and that was just to disinfect the boy…