Clean-Up in Aisle Mine

"Your poop looks like frosting!"

This is an actual quote, folks. To save some shred of anonymity for all involved, I can offer few further details. But it's factual. The words issued forth from Miles' lips, at a time when both parents were home to hear/ appreciate/ recoil in horror.

...With these kinds of conversations so uniquely entwined in my everyday life, is it any wonder I am a near-raving lunatic with fading social skills and not very cute outfits?

I am truly losing my mind as we continue potty training. Monday, I said OUT LOUD to my beloved child, "I tell you the truth. I will walk out of this house and leave you if you don't stop doing this." ("This" being our daily routine of accidents Miles doesn't notice or acknowledge.)

I have touched so much fecal matter in the last month -- more than any parent of any average newborn, I would confidently wager. (Infants wear diapers. Diapers are disposable. And diapers are designed to contain poop. Toddlers wear SuperHero underwear. Super Hero underwear are both prized and overpriced and not, as a rule, thrown away. Also, they don't contain sh*&! Sorry. So rarely does as expletive fit into a sentence literally, that I had to use it.)

I really am near the precipice. I've been just rational enough to think through what I'll do when I go over, and those of you with a soft spot for the little redhead will be pleased to hear I'm not going to take Miles with me. (The very idea is nonesense! Not only do I not want to harm him, I don't want to smell him on my way down!)

Really, our house is beginning to reek. And sometimes the smell is the best proof of what has gone awry. I recently walked into our kitchen and thought -- no lie! -- "there's so much water on the floor! A dishwasher supply pipe must have burst." I bent closer. Nope, but Mommie's Little Kitchen Helper sure sprang a leak!

I'd wised up a bit by the time I found a slick spot in the bathroom this week. "Is that pee?!" I asked/ shrieked. "Uh, yeah. I missed," shruged the boy. I think that was the episode during which I noticed a rash on my knuckles, a brand new outbreak of dish-pan hand no doubt caused by all the scalding hot washings I undergo daily.

In a nice bit of serendipitous timing, I'm headed to the dermatologist tomorrow, where I can address my flaky, irritable skin. Had I the time, I would also head to the liquor store so I could address my flaky, irritable mind.

Once this is over -- assuming this, too, shall pass -- and I am asked for advice on potty training, I'm not sure I can ever muster a (printable) reply. I'm thinking of anything, anything I can say that will not cause another woman to shudder with revulsion or fear.

Lysol. Clorox. The brand names are your best friends. Those, and a gross of latex gloves.