My kid took a shit in the pool this last week. Swear to God. It was more in his diaper as I pulled him out of the pool, but still, it was a near-shit-experience. And friends, this is like your worst fear as a parent of little kids in the summer. Thankfully it wasn’t my three year old, but I’m still scarred this week.
There we were floating around in the baby pool on a lovely morning in Boulder. Thankfully there were only a few other kids in the pool. Kierian has this nice little floaty thing he sits in so I can try and manage two of them in the pool at the same time: little bit of zone D. To make matters worse, I woke up with a fever that day. So already I’m death walking; my senses are compromised. Usually when I hear that all-familiar grunt, even from miles away, I know what he’s up to. But I must have missed it that day. Lordy.
I swim over to him after dunking Cora and he smells friggin’ ripe. I check him and I know I have a mere moment to act. Thank Buddha those swim diapers are made to be tight ’cause just as I quickly yank him from the pool there is a loud barking sound and… I whisk (more like slowly drag my sick ass) away from the pool with him and run (crawl) to the corner. Cora starts crying and yelling for me to get back in the pool, she wasn’t done being dunked. Cora is screaming, Kierian is kicking gleefully as I try to covertly wipe the filth from his chubby buns, and I am sweating bullets in the hot sun with my fever. And whaddyaknow, I forgot to bring a new diaper.
I rip sweet wailing Cora from the pool and put her under my arm, throw naked love boy in the stroller and we head for the hills. It was a clean getaway. Kind of.
Just another day at the pool, my friends. At least it wasn’t a floater.