"Blake, why don't you write a blog about it? You would be so much funnier writing about poop."
That was one of the last things said on Sunday night, the end of a very long weekend, that was only 48 hours. Between Egan, Maggie and Bo, we packed as much as possible into that time. This post is not for the faint of heart, or those squeamish around the talk of digestive waste. It is a tale, of woe, of comedy, and most of all, poop.
Picture an average Friday. I had just gotten done mowing the lawn, the weed eater still is broken, despite my several attempts to fix it, Egan had just gotten done with lunch, and we were all hanging out in the living room. I opened the computer to check my email, and all the sudden, there is a sadly familiar smell. I look down and see Egan, with his hands full of poop. "Egan, where did the poop come from?" I ask as I am scooping him up to clean his hands, and then the floor. *sigh
If that was the end of it, it would have made for a pretty boring, even average, weekend. But it only gets better. Egan goes down for a nap, something he is not particularly fond of. He threw quite the fit, and so after a while, Whitney went in to lay him back down. She screamed a little, and called me into the room. As I walked in to find out what the issue was I stepped onto a soaking wet rug 6 feet from his crib. That was when Whitney told me what had happened. Egan had managed to take off his diaper and had peed through the bars of the crib. I took him, put his diaper back on, and included some pants to add a bit of a challenge while Whitney cleaned up and put his bedding in the wash.
The next day didn't get much better. Right before we left to go run some errands I changed Egan's diaper and got him dressed. Bo took the opportunity to dig through the diaper and emptied it before I realized what happened. After the shock wore off, and I suppressed the urge to throw up, or use Whitney's toothbrush to clean his mouth, we left to run some errands.
We were greeted upon our return by Maggie bringing me a bit of trash. 10 seconds later, another scream by Whitney, and a dog running out of the kitchen, yielded a kitchen covered in trash and an empty trashbag. Like any caring husband, I left the trash to Whitney and I put the dogs in timeout (closed them in a bedroom so they could "think about what they've done".) They showed me.
When I let them out, I once again felt the becoming all too familiar sensation of urine under my feet. At this point, I've had enough bodily waste for one weekend, heck I've had enough for a month of weekends. Egan had one last trick up his...sleeve.
One Sunday, and 3 services later Whitney is making dinner, and I am giving Egan is weekly bath. He had one Wednesday and Friday too, but he had been sick and angry for those so this was his 1st bath that he had time to play in. Finishing the basic requirements for a bath, I let him play for a bit. That is until he stood up and started back with his new trick, peeing all over the place. I picked him up so he was aimed back into the tub, dried him up, dressed him up and passed him off to Whitney.
After he laid down, we sat down on the couch and laughed at the craziness of the weekend. Whitney said, "Blake, can we please just start over?" And, "Why don't you write a blog about it? You would be so much funnier writing about poop."