Oodgie shared this story with me a couple nights ago, and I was laughing so hard I nearly wet myself. I told her she should write something up for the Hideaway, and lo and behold she did! Enjoy!
Many, many years ago--before the Crouton (B.C.?) and I were joined in
holy b lessed until death matrimony--we took a little trip together. Okay, so it was a big trip: clear across the world to Thailand. We were to spend 2 weeks on a boat with some others (no, not Others) exploring the islands in the Andaman sea. Lovely, right? Well, after arriving at the airport a day late, flying for 4,929 hours, spending a night at a sketchy roadside motel, taking a "cab" through the rural Malaysian countryside and finally arriving at a port, we boarded a local ferry to finally and triumphantly meet up with our fellow travelers.
On that ferry I suddenly realized I had to pee. Not like "oh, I have to pee" but more like "I HAVE TO PEE NOW." So I stumbled down to the bowels of the ferry (no luxury liner, mind you) and entered the "restroom." There, I found it. A swirling, disgusting pool of despair. A foul-smelling, violently circulating eddy of Malaysian peasant excrement (not that there's anything wrong with that) cut into a hole in the floor of the ferry. What could I do? I had to pee! So I sucked it up, held my breath, and squatted,
praying vowing that I'd never have to endure such a sight again.
I was wrong.
In fact, right here, just a few days ago, Cheeky was kind enough to recreate that moment for me.
Here we were, at Bespin, ready for tub time. My Croutonspouse may have mentioned before that Cheeky has developed the unfortunate if not-too-often habit of, well, relaxing so much in the tub that her bowels release their contents. Or, more simply put, she poops in the bath. It'd been a while since the last incident, so I felt a false sense of confidence. La la la, all is well, when all of a sudden she got a very worried look on her face. She stood up, grabbed my hand, and started firing nuggets into the water.
Faced with the choice of just letting her use the tub as a toilet or trying to fling her onto the potty, inconveniently positioned miles away (did I mention the size of the master bath here is actually the size of your average NY one-bedroom apt?), I opted to accept my fate and let her finish. When I was convinced she was done I tried to pick her up, but she didn't want to get out. To punctuate this fact, she promptly sat down. On the poo. Squishing it into the tub mat.
So much for solid waste removal.
We moved on. I got her out, got her dressed in pj's and diapered up. I then suggested we go back to the crime scene to clean and swab for DNA. While she threw fully-wrapped feminine products into the toilet, I cautiously plucked the remaining bath toys out and placed them under scorching water in the sink for decontamination. Then I tried to scoop. Not happening. The poo, soaking in tub water for ten minutes, had taken on a flaky consistency that just wasn't solid enough. Shit. Literally. I was stumped.
So what did I do? I accidentally leaned on the button that starts the air jets. Did I mention it's a jacuzzi bath? So when I say "jets" I'm talking "JETS." NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
And there it was again...my swirling pool of despair. Bubbles churning, liquefied shit swirling and fragmenting even more, a deafening roar bouncing off the bathroom walls, and poor Cheeky, red-faced, sobbing and screaming in terror (silently, to me, since I couldn't hear over the roar of the JETS).
I tried desperately to shut off the air, pushing this button and that, and this one and that (of course there are only 3 buttons but it seemed like more in the midst of my panic) and grew increasing flustered. Finally, I grabbed Cheeky's trembling hand, said "should we leave the bathroom?" I saw her nod a muted, frightened "yes" and we fled, leaving the churning hell-pool behind closed doors.
Later, when she was asleep, I went in to assess the damage. It was grim. You know you've hit a low point in parenting when you're using a wipe to hand-scoop tiny ground-up turds out of your mother's Architectural Digest bathtub.
But it makes for a good story, right?