And You Thought Your Child Was Hard to Handle?

I’ve been keeping an unofficial list called, “Things I’ve Found in Bruiser’s Mouth.” It includes whole almonds. Moss from a potted plant. A tiny, opened hair clip. Various crumbs from off the floor. A doll shoe. Oh. And poo.

That’s right. Poo.

It was just yesterday that the unthinkable happened. When I went collect Bruiser from his crib after a nap, he was sitting with his back to me, totally absorbed, playing with something. And then he looked over at me, his deeply contented grin ringed with …

Poo.

POO!

My baby was eating POO!

It was like a scene from a horror movie. Poo was everywhere. Everywhere!

I snatched him up and started scrubbing him down with wet wipes, cursing under my breath. Once I’d gotten the poo off his face, I began cleaning his mouth out with wipes, one after another. Each one came out tinged with brown.

(Let’s pause for a moment until your dry heaving subsides. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Okay. You good?)

Once I had gotten rid of the worst of it, I plunked him down naked on the floor and stripped his poo-ridden crib of its sheets. When I turned back to him a few seconds later, he had a funny look on his face.

“Oh hell no,” I muttered, grabbing a wipe and sticking a covered finger into his mouth. Out came a clear plastic lid from a vending toy. This child was clearly sent to this earth TO PUNISH ME.

“How’s it going?” Hubs asked on the phone about fifteen minutes later, after Bruiser had gotten a thorough kitchen sink de-pooing and sanitization.

“Uh, not good,” I said. “Bruiser ate his own poo.”

“Oh my God,” he said. “What did the doctor say?”