The vast majority of Jedi’s bedroom contents are stacked in the laundry area, waiting to be washed and purified. From poop. Lots and lots of poop. That my daughter smeared around his room. After removing her bottoms and relieving herself on his pillow. There was a plop of poop here, a plop of poop there, a plop of poop everywhere except where it should have been. Her diaper, it turns out, was completely clean.
At first ghastly sight, I couldn’t think straight. I froze. My instincts said to wait for backup, but unfortunately it was just me. And a lot of poop. After a few seconds of processing the situation, I managed to get myself together. Buzz stepping in a pile and tracking a trail out of the room might have helped snap me back to reality.
First order of business, contain the craptastrophe. Then, de-poopify the kids.
But it wasn’t contained. I was covered. I managed to smear my washing machine. There was poop in the sink. I tried to get it all, but one can never be certain about these kinds of things.
There was a lot of poop.
“You’re having a bad day, aren’t you Mommy?”, Jedi asked as I’m scrubbing poop out of the carpet.
“Yes, son. Yes I am.”