Yesterday a friend called to catch up. She proceeded to tell me how her daughter (who is just a few months younger than Tornado E) had an accident in her underwear last weekend. Since my friend was too busy to clean her daughter up, it fell to her husband. We laughed as my friend imitated her husband’s grumbling. (I thought we were done with this. Why did she do this? What happened? Are we suppose to be over this crap? Isn’t she too old for this? Being done with this crap is why we didn’t have more children. I thought we were done with this.) Then when the husband decided to throw away the underwear instead of clean it (because who enjoys cleaning disgusting soiled underwear), the daughter threw a fit, begging her father not to throw away her precious princess underwear. (Please, Daddy, not my princess underwear!) What could a good father do? So the husband started scrubbing sh*t from the princess underwear, starting his whole grumbling monologue all over again. And how my friend and I laughed.
And how I laughed.
Then today as I spooned a large helping of pureed squash and corn in the mouth of a demanding Tornado A, Tornado S came up, bringing a package of unopened graham crackers. I smelled something.
Me: Tornado S, did you poop your pants?
I don’t know why I expected a different answer. There is only one possible answer to that question. I knew the answer. I didn’t want to hear it. I was praying against it.
Tornado S: Yes!
Goddamnit. F- me. Aren’t we done with this sh*t? Isn’t he too old for this sh*t? He potty trained so goddamn well, and then this. F. He was even on the pot earlier, trying to go. What the hell happened?! I’m suppose to be done with this crap for another two years.
Me: Tornado S. Go to the bathroom and take off your pants and underwear and wait until I get there.
Tornado S: I don’t wan-
Me: (The Voice) GO!
He scrambled away, and I finished feeding Tornado A, keeping one eye on Tornado S struggling to take off his pants and underwear. I’ll spare you the gory details. But Tornado S did try to wipe himself. Lord, help me.
After placing Tornado A in the midst of his toys (so that he can crawl right after me when I walk away), I went to the bathroom and cleaned up Tornado S. With Tornado A hanging onto my leg, I looked down at the clothes. I made a decision. That underwear was going in the trash.
The good news is I learned a valuable lesson. The bad news is I think it has something to do with karma is a bitch.