A couple of weeks ago the Bean and I were enjoying a rare moment of rest. We’d put the DragonMonkey down for a nap with with a nice, delicious bottle of warm soymilk (GAG) and had retired to our bedroom to make sweet, passionate, energetic love.
Ha. Ha, ha, ha. Yeah, right.
We were both lying flat on our backs, absolutely still, terrified that any sound or movement we might make would cause the DragonMonkey to rise from his crib and continue his angry, screaming reign over the household. We glanced at each other every few moments, with shy, hopeful smiles. Could this be it? Were we really about to get a chance to lay down on a Saturday afternoon like those relaxed, happy, “normal” married couples you always see on tv?
The sleepy stillness was shattered by a horrified scream from the DragonMonkey’s room. I didn’t even have a chance to think how to react. Before I’d even realized it was the DragonMonkey making that sound, my body was already lunging off the bed, responding to deep primitive call of my ancestors that lingered in my bones. Save the baby. It was one of those sounds that pierces straight through to your heart, stripping away any superficial veneer of civility, turning you into a rushing mass of angry she bear, a charging cow, a get-your-hands-off-my-child-or-I’ll-rip-the-skin-of-your-face-off-with-my-teeth kind of a mother. There’s a difference between the whine of a sleepy child and a scream of terror, and the DragonMonkey was definitely screaming.
Save the baby. Every second counts in an emergency, and your ancestors are the ones that responded fast enough to save the baby from the jaguar, or the hyena, or the flood. Those that failed never got a chance to passon their genes. Like the evolutionary winners that we are, the Bean and I both bolted upright, shoving past each other through the doorway in an effort to save our son. I’ve never heard a sound like this out of my son in all the time I’ve known him. It was one long, continued wail of terror. Obviously, he was on fire. I mean, what else could make him scream like that?
What else, indeed. The Bean and I opened the door to the bedroom, staring at the carnage, and then back at each other.
The DragonMonkey stood quivering, desperately pressing himself against the far wall of his crib. His back flush against the crib, palms flattened and fingers splayed against the wood, he leaned back in terror. His free hand pointed in horror, index finger trembling as he directed our attention to…
The pile of sh** that lay on the opposite end of his crib.
Hey guys, I’m sorry about the cussing, but that’s what it was. I’m just following the etymological rules.
When you go to the bathroom and flush it down the toilet, it’s Number Two.
When you’re changing a diaper, it’s Stinkies or Poopy (Do you have a poopy diaper? Go show Daddy! Daddy wants to play with you!)
When it gets all over the place during a diaper changing, it turns into Crap. (BEAN! Get over here and help me! The DragonMonkey’s hands are in the way…now he’s smearing CRAP everywhere! It’s all over the place! I’m covered in CRAP! Hurry up! HE’S REACHING FOR HIS HAIR!)
When you are torn from a lazy, warm, Saturday afternoon nap (Oh, ode to the gentle breeze! Ode to the lazy, drifting, golden dust motes!) to race into your son’s room, only to find out that instead of napping he has pulled off his diaper, squatted in the corner of his crib to squirt excrement everywhere, slipped and fallen in it and THEN decided to be terrified of it— Well, that’s when it morphs into sh**.
What else could we do? We stood in the doorway and laughed.
The DragonMonkey was less than amused at our reaction. He lifted his leg accusingly, waving it at us as his screams slowly faded into a normal sobbing. Didn’t we see? Couldn’t we see what was smeared all over his leg? He pointed at the pile of sh**, and then back to the smears on his leg, as if explaining it to an exceptionally dense person. There was EVIL POOP on his leg. And EVIL POOP in a threateningly little pile in his crib. Get him OUT OF THERE, before the pile came to life and lunged at him! This was no time to laugh!
Like the sweetly maternal person that I am, I was all for leaving him in his crib to go grab the video camera (if he’s going to pull stunts like this, I thoroughly plan on accumulating the evidence and showing it off at his future wedding). The Bean looked at me in mild disgust, and pointed out that our son was completely covered in excrement, and didn’t I think it might make sense to wash him instead of trying to capture the memory?
Sometimes, I feel sorry for the DM, having me as a mother.
At any rate, we managed to clean up the mess, although any chance we might have had at a nap was destroyed beyond repair. I suppose it could have been worse. The DragonMonkey could have been enthralled with his own crap, instead of terrified, and chosen to FINGERPAINT THE WALLS like one of my friend’s son keeps doing.
