It's kind of silly when you think about how irrationally excited parents get when children accomplish something as basic as shitting in a bowl. When you take into account that it takes us between three and four years to master the art of shitting in a bowl and then wiping ourselves, it looks like a Christmas miracle that we're not only the dominant species on this planet, but that we live, on average, to be 85. Most baby animals are walking within seconds, and most cats are licking their ass in a matter of weeks.
For nearly four years we've been swimming in human excrement, and the last couple of weeks at our house have been a veritable feces festival. We had a kind-of brown theme before having children that's magically spread (pun intended) to other parts of the house since the kids have been born, and it isn't paint that's responsible for the added color. There's so much shit in the living room carpet that if you strike a match in our living room it will burst into flames.
I'm obviously exaggerating, but still....
The first incident happened a few weeks ago when my wife went out for a night with one of her friends. I put the youngest child to sleep in her crib and resumed normal operations with the oldest. At one point she got up, ran into her room, instructed me to stay in the living room and then slammed the door, which is standard operating procedure when she needs to "make smellies." Typically, she makes the smellies, opens the door and beckons us to Shit Central Station, where we simultaneously handle the business of cleaning her up and begging her not to run her hands through the shit and then pet the cat, who always seems to be trolling nearby when diapers are being changed.
The other blessed and special event came complements of her younger sister, who was standing in front of the TV, grunting and occasionally farting. On the surface, it looked like the normal business-as-usual process of a small toddler dropping a hot load, so we took note and went about our business with the intent of waiting until the crime had been fully perpetrated before cleaning up the criminal. A few minutes later after I'd forgotten about the small child shitting in the middle of our living room, it felt like the shit had literally crawled out of her diaper, formed arms and punched me in the face. It was like someone had secretly lit a cluster of shit-scented candles throughout our house. I heard my wife yell, "Oh my God!" and then turned my attention to the toddler, who was dripping with shit. Her diaper had clearly failed to hold up its end of the bargain. It looked like she'd either taken too much child laxative on accident or just finished a Tough Mudder race, but instead of crawling through a mud puddle at the end, it looked like she swam through a river of feces. I grabbed the toddler, stripped her down and put her in the tub, where she put her hands up, smiled and kept yelling "Bath! Bath! Bath!" My wife grabbed a spray bottle of what I can only call shit-getter-outer and launched into Operation Feces Extraction. While my wife is furiously scrubbing like a maniac and fighting the urge to throw up in her mouth, the older child is lording over her in an Iron Man costume, pointing at the shit-stained carpet and laughing uncontrollably. It was the kind of stuff that nightmares are made of.