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Note from the author: I apologize in advance for the lack of pictures included in this post. However, given the subject matter, I thought the potential photos might offend the senses and knowing that many of my readers have quite active imaginations I thought it unnecessary to expand on what can be pictured mentally.]
Having worked in the field of sexual education I understand the challenge of finding ways to explain to teens the perils of early sexual activity. The following should prove more than adequate in deterring youngsters from engaging in baby-making activities.
Nap-time. A blessed time. A time in which, even if children do not actually sleep, the expectation is there, and it is entirely within a mother's rights to leave her toddler in his crib whilst she takes the much needed rest. Today William woke up an hour into nap time - and only a half hour after Sissy had begun to snooze. Having not even begun my own nap, I stumbled to his room to tell him "It's still nap-time. . ." and lie down on his floor with a blanket and a pillow to prove it.
An hour later, we wake. William is cheerful, I'm cheerful. All seems well.
In reality, all is
not well. As soon as we turn off the white noise Will sleeps with, and leave his room, we realize that Sissy is screaming as if she'd been tortured by wild men from Borneo throughout the entire time we slept. I run into the room, apologies already on my motherly lips, and pick my dear, sweet child up in my arms. She has screamed so hard she smells as though she has spit up. "Oh, honey," I croon, "I'm so sorry, I slept, I didn't know you needed me." She stops crying immediately, but still smells. I sniff at her collar, her blankets, not realizing what should have been obvious.
Seconds later, I realize what I should have known all along. She is covered in her own poop. Enough that her entire pair of pants (cute ones, I might add - this being the problem with girls - their clothes are cute and therefore I mourn more when they get spoiled) are covered from waistband to ankle with shit. Yellow, mealy, awful, milky poo that stains regardless of what amount of Shout you use to pre-treat, soak, and after-treat the laundry. Not only are her pants covered, it has seeped out of her clothes and into her wonderful pink flowered blanket where it is so prolific that it sits in pools on the bed where I have laid her in a fit of disgust at having carried her around in innocent ignorance of the poop situation.
Seventeen wipes later. Two loads of laundry later. (Both of which contained the offending pants and blanket, and neither of which got either clean.) And we have effective birth control not only for the teens in our audience, but possibly also for the married, sane, adult people who know better than us breeders that children produce poop. Lots of it.
I'm off to buy wipes. We're out.
