A Perfect Shithole. Can I Say That Now?
Parenting is hard. It's both physically and mentally challenging, especially with toddlers. I had almost forgotten that if not for my Facebook feed which reminisced about photos from a decade ago while I cringed at the vulgarity of language in the news. Please excuse my French...my house was the epitome of a 'Shithole' back then. I'll be the first to admit it, a steaming cesspool in which we lived. Though not extremely funny at the time, the humorous recollection of a particular scenario was just what I needed this week!
It was just over a decade ago that my brother and his wife were visiting our home in Colorado with their new ten-month-old baby in tow. My husband and I had three young children at the time, ages four years, two years and five-months-old. At that time, we affectionately referred to our children as the three W's, 'Whine, Why and Waaah'! The oldest daughter complained, the middle son had a question for everything, and the baby was my first colicky child. He literally hated his siblings who couldn't quit touching him, so needless to say, he cried all the time. I was up to my eyeballs in potty training, soothing, answering questions, feeding, cleaning and hosting a household of guests with their own needs. The house looked like a bomb had exploded from a cleanliness perspective and I was stressed out with my mother trying to 'over-manage' the scene. The last vacation we had, affording us our third child, seemed like a distant mirage, and in hindsight, perhaps the abundance of children and lack of time and money should've finally broken us. (I'll reassure you that it didn't as a subsequent vacation allowed for a fourth child after pregnancy amnesia and a few drinks set in.) I felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air who was preparing to catch a lit torch.
I recall the baby was screaming at the top of his lungs in a bouncy chair at the time, which was often the safest place for him, yet likely granted him an overabundance of stimulation from the lights and sounds, not to mention his four-year-old sister who sat beside him whacking the mirror in his face. You'd think with all the adults around my baby could've been saved, but this child's shrill scream drove everyone away, including the dog, like a siren alerting tsunami evacuation. Unfortunately raising panic in adults, his siren only alerted his siblings who tried to help. My brother and sister-in-law had never heard anything like it and immediately felt sorry for me. It's a wonder they even birthed a second child after visiting our home, a billboard with flashing lights and sounds that screamed BIRTH CONTROL!
My second child was additionally summoning me, "Mommy, I need you to wipe me!" So proud of his accomplishment on his own when duty called! Caught between a rock and a hard place, I chose the bathroom escape with my husband at work. My cheerful 2-year-old, naked from taking his pants off at the potty, began washing his hands and playing in water, when I realized he hadn't finished his business that plopped on the floor behind him. Think quickly, I urged myself, gagging in response. Grabbing his dirty body, I quick shut the bathroom door and hauled him upstairs to the bathtub, racing as fast as I could, my arms outstretched like a robot, passing my screaming son on my right. Panic began to boil inside me as I worried about judgment ensuing from relatives nearby. Placing my son in the empty tub, I pleaded with him not to move as I ran downstairs to find anyone with a pulse to watch him.
No sooner did I reach the bottom of the stairs than I noticed the bathroom door wide open. Cautiously peering inside, I noticed our white Schnoodle Baxter feasting on a smorgasbord of s*&%! Racing out of the bathroom before I could grab him, Baxter 'Poopy Paws' bounded up my light tan carpeted steps to escape. My house had literally become a 'Shithole'.
"S*&%!" I exclaimed. "I heard that" my brother laughed from the other room while playing in front his child. "You'd have said far worse," I shouted, bounding back upstairs to find Baxter. His trail led me to find him shaking under our bed, his s*&%-eating brown muzzle revealing his dirty deed. Racing to bathe the dog in the basement utility tub, I caught a glimpse of my screaming baby still bouncing with lights and sounds, attended to by his sister. Luckily my mom had taken a cue to assist the 2-year-old with his bath upstairs and my son's bath water that I heard wasn't running unattended.
With the stupid dog bathed and two-year-old happily playing in the bathtub with grandma, I next tackled the bathroom. Hands and knees scrubbing ensued accompanied by a roll of paper towels and disinfectant. Perhaps I was escaping the trauma of caring for a colicky baby or the needs of guests. Whatever the reason, I scoured (the bathroom and myself) in a cathartic fashion. We were all safer with me locked inside! Emerging after a few deep breaths, I found myself in a better place to care for my needy baby alone in the nursery, rocking both he and myself into tranquility. Looney Toons had become my life!
The images of that day are etched into my mind and I'm thankful that I can recount the story in humorous detail with my children. I can attest I had struggled with the grotesque subject matter and an equally vulgar title that accurately depicted that day, until this week. Turn on the TV and my kids hear it everywhere. Still getting used to the phrase, I'm proud to admit my house was, in fact, 'A Perfect Shithole', and I've seen my fair share. Can I say that now? Perhaps there is a silver lining after all!
It was just over a decade ago that my brother and his wife were visiting our home in Colorado with their new ten-month-old baby in tow. My husband and I had three young children at the time, ages four years, two years and five-months-old. At that time, we affectionately referred to our children as the three W's, 'Whine, Why and Waaah'! The oldest daughter complained, the middle son had a question for everything, and the baby was my first colicky child. He literally hated his siblings who couldn't quit touching him, so needless to say, he cried all the time. I was up to my eyeballs in potty training, soothing, answering questions, feeding, cleaning and hosting a household of guests with their own needs. The house looked like a bomb had exploded from a cleanliness perspective and I was stressed out with my mother trying to 'over-manage' the scene. The last vacation we had, affording us our third child, seemed like a distant mirage, and in hindsight, perhaps the abundance of children and lack of time and money should've finally broken us. (I'll reassure you that it didn't as a subsequent vacation allowed for a fourth child after pregnancy amnesia and a few drinks set in.) I felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air who was preparing to catch a lit torch.
I recall the baby was screaming at the top of his lungs in a bouncy chair at the time, which was often the safest place for him, yet likely granted him an overabundance of stimulation from the lights and sounds, not to mention his four-year-old sister who sat beside him whacking the mirror in his face. You'd think with all the adults around my baby could've been saved, but this child's shrill scream drove everyone away, including the dog, like a siren alerting tsunami evacuation. Unfortunately raising panic in adults, his siren only alerted his siblings who tried to help. My brother and sister-in-law had never heard anything like it and immediately felt sorry for me. It's a wonder they even birthed a second child after visiting our home, a billboard with flashing lights and sounds that screamed BIRTH CONTROL!
My second child was additionally summoning me, "Mommy, I need you to wipe me!" So proud of his accomplishment on his own when duty called! Caught between a rock and a hard place, I chose the bathroom escape with my husband at work. My cheerful 2-year-old, naked from taking his pants off at the potty, began washing his hands and playing in water, when I realized he hadn't finished his business that plopped on the floor behind him. Think quickly, I urged myself, gagging in response. Grabbing his dirty body, I quick shut the bathroom door and hauled him upstairs to the bathtub, racing as fast as I could, my arms outstretched like a robot, passing my screaming son on my right. Panic began to boil inside me as I worried about judgment ensuing from relatives nearby. Placing my son in the empty tub, I pleaded with him not to move as I ran downstairs to find anyone with a pulse to watch him.
No sooner did I reach the bottom of the stairs than I noticed the bathroom door wide open. Cautiously peering inside, I noticed our white Schnoodle Baxter feasting on a smorgasbord of s*&%! Racing out of the bathroom before I could grab him, Baxter 'Poopy Paws' bounded up my light tan carpeted steps to escape. My house had literally become a 'Shithole'.
"S*&%!" I exclaimed. "I heard that" my brother laughed from the other room while playing in front his child. "You'd have said far worse," I shouted, bounding back upstairs to find Baxter. His trail led me to find him shaking under our bed, his s*&%-eating brown muzzle revealing his dirty deed. Racing to bathe the dog in the basement utility tub, I caught a glimpse of my screaming baby still bouncing with lights and sounds, attended to by his sister. Luckily my mom had taken a cue to assist the 2-year-old with his bath upstairs and my son's bath water that I heard wasn't running unattended.
With the stupid dog bathed and two-year-old happily playing in the bathtub with grandma, I next tackled the bathroom. Hands and knees scrubbing ensued accompanied by a roll of paper towels and disinfectant. Perhaps I was escaping the trauma of caring for a colicky baby or the needs of guests. Whatever the reason, I scoured (the bathroom and myself) in a cathartic fashion. We were all safer with me locked inside! Emerging after a few deep breaths, I found myself in a better place to care for my needy baby alone in the nursery, rocking both he and myself into tranquility. Looney Toons had become my life!
The images of that day are etched into my mind and I'm thankful that I can recount the story in humorous detail with my children. I can attest I had struggled with the grotesque subject matter and an equally vulgar title that accurately depicted that day, until this week. Turn on the TV and my kids hear it everywhere. Still getting used to the phrase, I'm proud to admit my house was, in fact, 'A Perfect Shithole', and I've seen my fair share. Can I say that now? Perhaps there is a silver lining after all!
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