I babysit my two-year-old 2nd cousin, Conner, and have since he was about 12 weeks old. He is an adorable child, and I love him dearly. I anticipate him every morning, and he has satisified any maternal cravings my uterus might've ever entertained in the past nine years since the birth of my youngest. Mr. Nesbit and I call him our "practice grandkid" because we spoil him rotten, let him do things we never let our own kids do at that age and then we happily send him home at 4:30 every weekday.
He turned two in June which means he is ripe for the potty-training. He's an amazingly smart kid, and was showing the signs so his momma, who is a teacher and has summers off, jumped in feet first in July. He is doing great and there are good days and bad days.
Some days he goes through every change of clothes, and I have to run a load of laundry to get him through the afternoon. Other days he makes it through the day without a hitch. And he really likes peeing in my yard out here in the country where no one can see him.
But oh, the poop. He hasn't quite mastered the whole putting of the poo in the potty and not in his pants thing. Personally, I don't get why it's so hard for kids to do the poop thing because I would think it would be FAR more uncomfortable than wet pants, but that's just me. I'm 37, what do I know?
Some days he saves the poo for his momma and daddy, and other days I get the treat.
Yesterday he had one wet accident right after lunch, but no big whiz (pun intended). When he got up from nap he settled himself in the floor in front of the couch with his favorite Tonka Jeep, a puppy toy he got from Sonic and my favorite pink and white quilt. He has quite a vivid imagination and I am always amused to listen to him play. He makes up elaborate scenes and adventures which usually involve Diego, an Imagination Mover or two and the phrase "OH MY DOSH!" a time or twelve. Yesterday was no different. I was in the recliner about three feet from him, listening to Sirius radio on the TV, texting a friend and watching him play.
I got up to see if he needed to go to the bathroom and as he looked up at me to answer the thought popped in my head, "Where did he get chocolate?"
Ladies and gentlemen, it was not chocolate.
He had gone from being a mere two-year-old with a vivid imagination to a "Poopy Picasso" within a matter of about three minutes. I stepped around to the front of him and looked down to see POO EVERYWHERE.
He had painted my quilt.
He had painted his Tonka Jeep.
He had painted my carpet.
He had painted his legs, arms and .... wait for it..... HIS FACE.
You can only imagine the thoughts flying through my head in a matter of about six seconds from visual recognition to absolute, abject, horrified horror.
The only words to come out of my mouth were "OH MY GOSH!" and as I led him by the arm down the hallway to the bathroom I believe I repeated the phrase about 967 more times. I plopped him in the shower and said, "DON'T MOVE!" to which is immediate reaction was to begin wailing at the top of his lungs. I ran to the utility room to grab a Walmart sack in which to deposit his clothes, hollering behind me, "CONNER! STAY IN THE SHOWER! DO NOT MOVE!" He responded with a new round of wails.
I came in to find him with his hands over his eyes because he was so upset I had yelled, and he kind of got the hint what he did was oh so totally not cool and instead of feeling sorry for him and his obvious remorse I could only yell again, "DON'T TOUCH YOUR FACE! YOU HAVE POOP ON YOUR HANDS!"
He began bawling louder.
I choked back my own tears while I stripped him down, dropped his poopy clothes in a sack and turned the water on in the shower. He didn't like the shower not one little bit. But I don't have a bathtub, and I wouldn't have wanted him sitting in a tub full of poo water anyway. I was trying to soothe him with calmer words instead of the OH MY GOSH that he'd heard for five minutes solid at that point. I washed him with the only soap I had - Dove Sensitive Skin body wash which is not tear-free.
Guess who got soap in the poor guy's eyes? Oh yeah. Guess how many of us were crying at that point?
Finally I got him cleaned up, turned off the water and he immediately breathed an audible sigh of relief. Poor little fella. I wrapped him up in a towel, cradled him in my arms, dug around until I found a bottle of Baby Magic, and as I slathered him down with the sweet-smelling wonderment that is Baby Magic I apologized for yelling, but stressed that painting with our poo is NOT something we do EVER.
He put his chubby arms around my neck and said, "I wub you, Kiki. I sowwy." I patted him and said, "Thanks, buddy. I love you, too."
Then he pulled back from me with a huge grin on his face and said, "But I had wots of fun painting!"