This weekend, we went out of town for a wedding. Weddings are bright and happy, filled with love and flowers and sparkles. Or in my case, poop and overflowing toilets, with oozing wounds and gas.
On the day of the wedding, I had to leave a bridal brunch early since my father-in-law, who just had surgery, needed to head back to the doctor to see if his wound was infected. There’s no way to make that situation less disgusting. We were all huddled around in the exam room trying to distract ourselves with models of spines and feet bones so we wouldn’t see the surgical tech digging into his shoulder with a long needle trying to get out all the puss.
And finally, after the wedding vows and songs and exchanging of rings, we reached the reception, whereby my son began a tirade of screaming and thrashing in extreme fatigue. At that, without even a bite of cake and an untouched plate of food sitting on a table somewhere, I began a thirty-minute drive to take my son and husband’s grandmother home. My son was passed out cold, but she was in a chatty mood, and went into great detail, bless her heart, about the effect of beans on her digestive system.
The next day, it was back to grandma’s for cornbread and a pot of beans (we’ve covered that! I know the full effects!) and after hours of sitting around in an extremely hot house, it was my son’s nap time. But the moment I laid him down, I heard a strange rushing-water sound coming from the restroom. I went to investigate and discovered a bubbling witch’s brew of urine-laden water overflowing from the toilet basin and pouring onto the tile floor. I screamed as my drugged father-in-law stumbled in like he was woken from the dead. I told him I needed a plunger. Like, immediately. Perhaps some Pine-Sol? He headed for the garage (what? why is this essential item in the garage?) while I tried sop up the water with towels and bathmats.
The day actually got slightly better when I did my mother-in-law’s laundry. That should tell you something.
On the seven-hour drive home, the kids did great. No poopy diapers in the car and no major breakdowns. But Sunday night, after an exhausting weekend, I looked down after getting my son out of the high chair and saw brown things on the carpet. It was, in fact, poop. Literally dangling from his shorts and dropping to the floor below in small little clumps. I rushed him into the bedroom to change his diaper, whereby he immediately stuck his hands directly into his filthy, half-exposed diaper, squished his fingers around in the contents before I could stop him, and then stared at his crap-covered hands in wonder. I later had to go around the house like it was an Easter Egg Hunt trying to find poop droplets. I ended up on my knees scrubbing the kitchen floor until my hands stung from the bleach water.
All in all, a really fabulous weekend. I love weddings. Peace and joy and sparkles, after all.