A Sigety Shower Scene

Psycho.  Bates motel.  The shower scene.  You know it.  And at some point in your life you've knifed the air while saying "eee!, eee!, eee!, eee!”  If not, well – you’re missing out on some cinematic gold right there and a gloriously awkward conversation killer.

I remember taking my California little booty to Universal Studios as a teenager.  They had a behind the scenes look at said murder.  Not so scary when you know that the blood was chocolate syrup and the knife plastic.  As for the crazy old mother?  That could have been real.  I’m learning with each new day of motherhood that “crazy old mother” is a title I just might live up to.  Now THAT scares me.

So while Hollywood plays tricks to scare the pants off us, toddlers everywhere skip the tricks and just take their pants off to scare us.  Don’t believe me?   Take last week for example.  The horrors of motherhood are indeed a reality.

Sigety home.  The master bathroom.  I was applying makeup.  Pay no mind that it was three in the afternoon and I was just getting ready for the first time that day.  That’s not the scary part.  Disturbing yes.  Scary no.

I’d left Owen with the most captivating and available babysitter I know on short notice – Elmo.  After about ten minutes I heard little footsteps through my room.  They were getting closer, and closer……and clllllloser.  Oh wait, I’m being dramatic too soon – this isn’t the scary part.  So, where was I?  Oh yes…Owen came into the bathroom.  I was emptying the trashcan in the corner and didn’t look up at first.  He was walking back and forth and started playing with the shower curtain.

The rustling of the curtain got my attention.  Er…why is there a brown handprint on my white shower curtain?  And is that a brown streak on my wall?  Brown fingerprints on my toilet seat?  Chocolate syrup on my floor?  If only.

"eee!, eee!, eee!, eee!”  

Or should I say...

“eeew! eeew! eeew! eeew!”

There, staring me in the face, were dirty baby butt cheeks and a diaper hanging by one remaining pull tab.  Then came the rapid fire realizations.  Poop on the wall.  Poop on the toilet seat.  Poop on the shower curtain.  Poop on his butt.  Poop on his hands.  Poop on the floor.  Poop!!!!!!!!!

Scared that I might be the next canvas to Owen’s new medium – I knew I had to act fast.  But of course in that moment all I came up with was chanting 

“ok – ooOOooK – OK – oooooooooK – ok – OK - ok” 

while I picked him up (like a contagious skunk) and plopped him in the tub.

A few minutes later, the poop (and my worries) had gone the way of all dirty bathwater.  And as I carried my no longer contagious critter into the living room I faintly heard my super hero theme music begin to play and my personal voice over announcer guy triumphantly declare “Another crisis averted by none other than SUPER MOM!!”   

But then the crap hit the fan.  Or did it?  I had cleaned my baby and my bathroom, but what about the living room where all this started?  Ugh. 

On hands and knees I found myself reaching a new low.  I sniffed every inch of that living room for the scent of poop.  And I distinctly remember thinking, 

“Really glad I put my make-up on.  Wouldn’t want to look like a frumpy mess while sniffing out my couch for poop.”  

Somehow I don’t think that’s ever been depicted on a Covergirl ad.  Easy, breezy, beautiful poop sniffer isn’t really the image they're going for.  

It’s times like these that nudge me toward “crazy psycho mom” status. 

But I really don’t have anyone to blame but myself.  You see, the real horror of this situation is that I knew Owen had pooped.  I heard him grunt, and I smelled it even before I headed into the bathroom to start my makeup.  But I decided to wait a few minutes to change it.  I thought maybe there was more where that came from.  And who wants to change two poopy diapers when you can change one.  It’s simple math people.  But I guess I was never really good at math.  There really was more where that came from, but it took me a little while to add everything up.  I finally saw the writing on the wall.  Too bad it had to be written in poop for me to get the message.

So if you ever find yourself needing to ask, “Is that chocolate or poop?” I urge you to err on the side of poop.  In the case of Psycho it was chocolate.  But in the case of Owen – it was most assuredly poop.  Good thing I didn’t do the lick test.  I don’t believe in the lick test.  

Allow me to glory in that.  At least I made it out of this whole predicament without licking poop.  I dare say that calls for a little heroic theme music in my honor.