He ate crayons the day before, unbeknownst to me. Then the following day, while I foolishly thought he was “playing trains” and stole a moment (literally) to moisturize my scaly legs, he dropped a load worthy of nightly news coverage. Shocking amounts of poo. Shocking. After mashing it into the ground like he was trying to make wine, he picked up a healthy portion and made his way to the kitchen. You know that image of footprints on the beach? Yeah. Now imagine it’s a poo trail on your beige carpet…..that you just shampooed. I counted 32 steps in all (he back-tracked at one point and apparently did a little light break dancing). Then on the tile, handprints. Approximately 12. All the finger painting we’ve been doing was his inspiration. And where do the crayons fit in, you ask? Well, that’s the beauty part. In each pile, footstep, or finger smear, flecks of red and blue crayon. Non-toxic, sure. But tell that to the carpet.

I felt like a tracker on National Geographic, on the trail of a rare toddler who shits skittles. As I “pre-treated” each step and pile with carpet cleaner, it foamed neon and the smell intensified. The house smelled like a dog kennel on the hottest day of the year. At that point, my sanity dipped to an all-time low. I felt the tears coming as my pregnant brain quickly calculated the number of toddler years squared. The idea of “them” teaming up. The plots they will hatch. The schemes. The endless poo trails I am doomed to follow. And then the laughter just came spilling out. A suppressed giggle at first. Then a shriek. Then full belly laughing. Then that crazy laugh that only moms can produce. The ultimate sign that you’ve given up, but only on cleanliness.

Knowing what to do next, I fished my phone out of the laundry hamper (one of many places I must often search for said device) and dialed my husband. I needed to commiserate. I needed to laugh with the man who got me in this position in the first place. And I needed him to feel slightly guilty about the fact that he gets free lunch where he works, and I get poo trails. We laughed mightily together. And I felt better afterward.

Cheered on by my husband and virtual friends, armed with a Bissel Steam Cleaner, and using the mantra “the days are long, but the years are short,” I used my son’s red train handkerchief to cover my mouth to avoid gagging from the smell and shampooed all 32 skat mounds. And vowed never again to read my son “Everybody Poops.”

When I was done, I ate an entire package of Mint Milano Pepperidge Farm cookies in lieu of whiskey or wine and watched Battlestar Gallactica with my son curled up and sleeping angelically in my arms. As if on cue, and for the very first time, I felt baby-to-be move. The message? This is isn’t over yet.

Lesley L. McKinley is a singer/songwriter and freelance writer who dreams of changing the world. Raised by wolves and pirates, her irreverent approach to most everything gets her in a lot of trouble, but she wouldn’t trade her battle scars or her sarcasm for all the trophies in the world. She is currently crafting songs for a new album and working on creating her own blog. Contact her at llmckinley44@yahoo.com for all your pirate needs.