I just read this and remembered my own sordid tale of poop where it is not wanted.
My mother walked into the house last night, looked at the tofu art on her floor, the pyramid of pots in the kitchen, the cheerios ground finely into the carpet, and screamed. “What happened to my HOUSE?!”
“Oh, that’s what happens when you have Sacha here,” I calmly asserted, snickering to myself. Why was I doing that?
Here’s what my mother didn’t see:
I was washing Sacha up after a meal (who knows which) and decided that it would be best to strip him down and just change him all in one shot. I put him in the sink and let him play with the taps, throw all of my happy-period stuff on the ground, toss my comb in the toilet, while I used a washcloth to clean him up. I then thought that it would just be best to change his diaper while I was at it. Took off the diaper, threw it out, looked back and saw Sacha compressing a pile of shit into the sink. Really trying hard to stain the porcelain, I’m sure.
I then had to decide whether to a) wipe up Sacha first and possibly have him scoot his poopy bum all over the carpet in my attempt to do this, or b) clean up the sink while wrestling him into my headlock-type move thus letting him wipe his ass all over me.
Knowing my mother and her aversion to messiness (although lord knows she was not this way when I was growing up) I chose option B. There now sits a whole lot of soiled clothes in a heap, just waiting to be de-poopified.
Now if only I could make sure the shit doesn’t stain her nice white washing machine, I could get away with this whole scheme.