Tonight Anna pooped in the bath. Twice. As in, I put her in the bath and she pooped so I cleaned it all out and re-filled the tub and she pooped again so I had to rinse her in the sink.
I’m not looking for an easy laugh or for your sympathy. I don’t actually want to be talking about this. A lady never discusses her poop or anyone else’s poop. In fact whenever someone posts a Facebook update about their kid barfing or pooping or doing any other kind of nasty bodily movement I think to myself: I am not going to be that mom. NO ONE wants to hear about my kid’s poop.
But this post isn’t really about poop. It’s about the state of my heart. And tonight my mama’s heart is very sad.
I should start by saying this whole pooping in the bath thing is becoming somewhat routine. In the last week it’s happened three times. THREE TIMES. Four if you count both of tonight’s incidents. Every time it happens I lose my you know what. I’m not going to write the word I want to write because, a. it’s a nasty four letter word and b. I don’t actually lose my you know what. Anna does.
I don’t mean to get angry when it happens but it’s so hard to maintain my composure when I see poop floating in the bathwater. The smell. The sight. The clean-up involved. The days can be so very long as it is, and a 6:30pm bath poop can really send a woman over the edge.
“No, no, no, Anna!” I said tonight. “You may not go poo poo in the bath!” And then I pulled her out shivering and she cried, “Poo Poo” over and over and over again as I realize I’ve shamed her.
And then I’m crying.”I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, little one.” She is cold and embarrassed and probably needs to finish her business…so she cries and cries and cries but I am unable to console her.
I rush to clothe her in footie pajamas, and then I gather her in my arms and rock her. She sniffles and puts her head on my shoulder for much longer than normal as I say I love you, I love you, I love you.
Both of us feel so guilty.
She’s been asleep for a few hours now but I can’t stop worrying about her. I worry I’ve ruined her for life, and that I’ve broken her little heart into pieces, and that she’ll never recover from that one time she pooped in the bath and her mom got angry.
I know there will be many other nights like this in my future as a mother. Nights where she goes to bed sad about something I’ve said, or defeated over something that happened at school, or brokenhearted over a boy I never liked anyway but pretended I did.
I also can’t protect her from the inevitable pains that come with life on earth.
But oh, I wish I could.
I wish I could be protected from the pain too.