Because That’s Just the Way It Goes

Last night was bath night, which we schedule for every other night. Boo would have a bath every day if she could, she loves the water so much; Geister would whenever the mood strikes. This could be never. Normally, this every other night schedule avoids the situation where one parent (me) has to do the bath solo—a doable but daunting task. But tonight, despite our careful scheduling, my husband got called in at the last minute to do some ambulance patient transfer blah blah blah. I had to do the bath myself.

“Isn’t it interesting,” I mused, as I scrubbed their faces and rinsed off their backs, “that my children never have accidents in the bathtub!” By which I meant, never mistake the bathtub for a toilet—with one exception of an incident in a hotel in Ottawa, when I had put a “soothing and relaxing” bubble bath into the water. My bad.
“Of course,” my other self then replied, “that realization means it is likely to happen tonight.”

It did. I had Geister out and dried, saving Boo till last; she sat relatively contained in a bath seat. As I let the water drain out, I saw the evidence. You know how it is: `Oh look, there’s something brown in the tub. . .oh frack I know what that is. . . @#$! '* (*add descriptive swear/non-swear word of your choice here)

Sidebar: It’s just like the time my husband walked through our family room and noticed similar brown substances on the floor. Curious, and unawares, he picked it up to examine it closer. “Hmm, what is this on our floor?. . .oh smurf!. . .Geister! What have you done?” Geister, at 18 months, had been toddling around in shorts, which allowed little gifts to escape from his diaper onto the floor.

I rescued from harm what toys I could; I cleaned off Boo, diapered her offending bottom, got her into her pajamas, and cleaned up the rest. Meanwhile I kept the ever-fascinated Geister at bay. Boo went to bed shortly afterwards, which left Geister to ponder the infraction with me.

“Mommy,” he said, “Boo pooed in the tub!”
“Yes, I know sweetie.”
“Why did she do it?”
“I don’t know sweetie. She’s a baby. She didn’t mean to.”
“Can I see the poop?”
“No, you can’t. It’s cleaned up.”
“But I want to see it!” he whined.
“No.”

Once Geister was resigned enough to not seeing the poop again, and knew that his bedtime was upon him, I tucked him in and turned out the light. (Then I lied down with him, because I have to. . . anyway, that's another topic.) He was silent for a few moments, drifting off to sleep. Until he sat upright, that is, blanket clutched to his chest.

“Mommy, Boo pooed in the bathtub!”
“Yes, I know.”
“But it’s not nice to poo in the bathtub!”
“No, you’re right it’s not.”
“Why isn’t it nice Mommy?”
“Because.”
“Is there poop in your bathtub?
“Of course not.”
“Mommy, is Boo going to poo in the bathtub again?”
“No, I promise she will never do it again.”

Silence. . .
Sleep. . .
More disinfectant.