I've been keeping this one to myself for a couple weeks... but it needs to be documented. I need him to remember what he did to me on February 28, 2012 at 7:38 p.m. CST.
Brandon is my sensitive, reckless, independent, 2 1/2 year old lovey-dovey boy. He is not potty-trained but he shows sporadic interest, so I got him a Lightening McQueen potty seat to use when he does get interested. (It's the kind that sits on top of the toilet so the parent doesn't have to go cleaning the contents out of the little potty seats. I did that with my daughter and it was gross, man.)
On Tuesday February 28, he was interested. He asked me to take him potty. We got to the bathroom and got him all set up and pointed down. (I feel like an accomplished mother when I remember this.) He sat for approximately 30 seconds before declaring "I'm all done now" even though he didn't do a darn thing. I let him get down and then we washed his hands, etc. The unaccomplished mother that I am did not bring a diaper to change him in to. No worries, eh?
He was walking to the bathroom door when he stopped to play with the laundry chute and give a shout-out to nobody downstairs.
He then started to toot.
Loudly and persistently.
Enough that he decided to grab his butt and start running back to the toilet.
And then he pooped all over the floor from the laundry chute to the toilet.
(It's not over yet.)
So I quickly grabbed him and put him back on the toilet. "I pooped mommy!" I told him it wasn't a big deal and not to worry about it -- but I couldn't start picking it up because the kid was already sitting on the toilet and I wasn't going to put loose runny poop into a garbage can.
"I pooped mommy" he said again -- as he started to gag. And then more gagging. The more he looked at the poop the more he gagged.
And that's when he started projectile vomiting.
All over himself. The toilet. And the rug already covered in shit.
I grabbed the garbage can that housed his previous dirty diaper, and he started to puke on that too.
I yelled for my husband to come and help me.
I yelled again for my husband to come and help me.
He showed up a minute later with a hand towel and my daughter. I yelled at them to avoid the crap covering the floor and to take his damn hand towel back. That wasn't going to be helpful. They were ordered to leave.
It was back to the poop and puke-filled kid and me. Much like a crime scene cleaner that I read about in a book, I decided to take this one step at a time. I ordered myself to not look at all the poop and the puke. I started with the kid -- and then when he was clean enough, he went into the bathtub so I could work on the poop on the floor, and then finally to the toilet.
My 5 year-old's response to all of this: "HEY NO FAIR! BRANDON GETS TO TAKE A BATH AND NOT ME??"
It was a night to hopefully someday forget and only remember when Brandon someday stumbles upon this entry in my blog.
