Recently I gave my husband crap. No, literally, I did.
Allow me to explain.
It was dinnertime—steak, frites, and a side of lobster tails, to be precise—and my family was enjoying this gourmet fare at home.
Our toddler was finished his meal, so we freed him from his highchair. We also suspected that he’d just had a poop, which he frequently executes during dinner, so we were hurrying down the last of our delicious meal before changing him into a fresh diaper.
A minute or so later, our wide-eyed son was toddling over to hand me something he’d found.
He often does this, and I always accept his offerings (which can be anything from a crumb or piece of lint to even a juicy strawberry he has decided to share).
“Mama, mama, mama!” he chimed enthusiastically, placing a curious treasure into my welcoming, outstretched hands.
I didn’t know what it was . . . until I did.
It was warm and brown and smelly, and it was shaped like a slightly flattened hamburger patty—my son had just handed me poo!
Yes, this happened. During steak and frites night, no less.
Of course, I let out the kind of shocked, high-pitched scream I am sure anyone would if their kid had just handed them a serving of crap.
Only, I didn’t just scream. See, instinctively my sharp reflexes sprang into action and I flung that poo patty from my hands, and it went flying across the table toward my husband, before stopping just short of him and landing with a dramatic splat on his dinner plate.
Thankfully he was done his meal.
It reminded me of that game hot potato, only a much grosser version, and we both busted out laughing from the absurdity of what had just happened.
The poo sat there getting cold and we kept pointing at it and laughing harder until tears were falling. From now on, you can just refer to me as the "Flung Poo Master" (nickname courtesy of my husband).
Perhaps it was the pressure from sitting in his highchair, or maybe just the actual physical amount of excretion produced, but the poo had squeezed out of our son’s diaper and escaped from the back of his pants.
He wasn’t upset, just perplexed by the mysterious mushy matter that had somehow materialized from somewhere behind him.
If this experience were to happen today, it might make a little more sense to him.
Just the other day, for the first time, our son alerted my husband to his diaper activity.
“Poop!” he said proudly, pointing to his bum.
“Is it time for a new diaper?” my husband asked.
“Yeah,” said our boy.
It’s a new day, people.
Next time, at least he can give us some warning before plopping a heaping pile of brown stuff into my hands.
Then again, let’s just hope there isn’t a next time.