By Mindi Wisman

So there you are, actively engaged with your phone kid who is playing in the bath. She’s talking to a duck, she’s drinking bath water, all totally normal and not at all disgusting things, when out of the corner of your eye you see…something. It’s brown and floating and you’re pretty sure it wasn’t there a minute ago.

Denial: “It’s probably nothing. Just a bath toy I forgot we had,” you tell yourself unconvincingly. “Mr. Potato Head is retro; he has a cigar, right?” “What happened to the rest of those Tootsie Rolls we got from the neighbor’s birthday party? Is there a rogue roll in the tub?” “Do we own Lincoln Logs? I don’t remember buying them, but maybe they were a gift? I’m sure that’s all it is.”

Anger: Your kid was wearing a diaper seconds before she went in the bath. The diaper is where she is supposed to poop. That’s the deal—she poops in the diaper, you clean it up. You both know the lay of the land. It’s just like having a dog—they poop, you pick it up. It goes with the territory. How hard is it for her to keep up her side of the bargain? It’s not like she has any other responsibilities. She’s not mowing the lawn or doing taxes or folding fitted sheets. KEEP THE POOP IN THE DIAPER IT’S YOUR ONLY JOB WHY DIDN’T I JUST GET A DOG.

Bargaining: If only I had waited a few more minutes before putting her in the bath, this wouldn’t have happened. If only I hadn’t let her eat that entire pint of blueberries. Holy crap was that a mistake. If only I didn’t have to share a bathtub with my children. Please, God, or Earth Mother, or Prince, or whoever it is out there, please, please don’t let there be poop in the bathtub. My bathtub. Again. This week.

Depression: I just can’t handle this right now. We’re out of Trader Joe’s dark chocolate peanut butter cups and I’m not sure I can manage this without those. I finished the coffee already and since I’m regrettably not a character in AbFab, it’s really not acceptable for me to open the wine at this hour, and the kids made balloon animals out of the rubber gloves that we normally reserve for the EW, NO of parenting. Why does she do this? Is there something wrong with her? Is there something wrong with me? Wait—is this what they mean by elimination communication? Is she trying to tell me something through crapping in the tub? Is there a hidden message I’m supposed to be searching for? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO COMMUNICATE TO ME AND WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE ELIMINATED FROM THERE?

Acceptance: It’s poop. I can say it now. And I can do this. I knew what I was getting into with these children from day one. Both came out of the womb and immediately pooped all over me. I’ve been barfed on, peed on, and the list of places and spaces where I’ve cleaned up my children’s poop is impressive in its breadth and scope. The Paris Metro? Mais, oui. The U.S. Embassy? Easy as apple pie. But this clean-up operation is tricky because it’s going to have to be lightening fast. And I’m going to have to fish it out. With my bare hands. Right now. Because otherwise? It will disintegrate, just like it did the last time and…I’m just starting to be able to eat Tootsie Rolls again. Merde.

*****

About the Author

Mindi Wisman has worked as a mental health therapist, sports psychologist, academic researcher, and writer, but has yet to achieve her goal of being a back-up singer to Dolly Parton. Her work has been featured in Babble, The Toast, Brain, Child Magazine and One Chic Mom. She is a married mom of two small kids and a recently returned expat from Brussels, Belgium, where she should have spent her time learning French, but instead complained about the lack of tacos. You can find more Mindi on Twitter.