Holy literal s-h–t, friends.
Today, while driving in the car with the boys I smelled something RANK.
Like, totally disgusting, something died in this car, what the f-ck is that smell? Rank.
It was stinky — and while I assumed it was probably my tiniest munchkin digesting his McDonalds, I was also growing genuinely concerned for the butt that was making that incredible smell.
When we turned into our destination and I finally had the chance to cock my head and get a good look, I saw it.
Poo. Lathered ALL OVER my kid's arms, legs, fingers, car seat -- legit it was everywhere.
Now, before I go on — you have to know how hard of a day it was today. It was one of those days that sends you to the back of your closet while devouring a Snickers covered in your tears.
And now, this. Poomageddon. All over the gosh darn place.
Not to mention it's six thousand degrees outside … so opening the windows to air out the smell? Yah right. That would've turned my car into a moving-grooving poop sauna.
Thankfully, our destination was a kid-friendly therapy session — because man, oh man, did this mama need some therapy today. And I wasn't gonna miss it on account of some poo.
With wipes and elf hat in hand. Yes, you heard me right, ELF HAT in hand. I began the process of decontaminating my child.
There was no garbage bin in sight so the deep-felty elf hat made the perfect hazardous waste bin.
My husband is always on me to keep a clean car. Well, MESS HAS PURPOSE, DARLING.
I walked into that therapy session, hair smelling like sh-t, baby in a bathing suit — because, well, that's all I had, and received so much love from the therapist who encouraged me to put the oxygen mask on myself.
Motherhood, a never-ending sh-tstorm. But remember, after every sh-tstorm, there's a rainbow.
And it's usually on your walls in crayon.
This post was written by Anneliese Lawton and first appeared on Grown Up Glamour. It was reprinted with permission.
