There was a smell.
It didn't smell like poop, but there was a smell. Some part of me knew, KNEW that if there was suddenly an unexplained smell, it likely had a horrible reason for being, and had come out of SG. But I ignored it, because *I* didn't want to be the one to find it and have to clean it up. I admit it, I actively pushed my husband in front of the septic truck on this one. I smelled it, and I remained on the couch.
"That doesn't smell right." This, eventually, from the kitchen/office, i.e., the other side of the house. I say that like our home is palatial, but really it has two sides downstairs, my side and his side - my side being the living room, and his being the kitchen/dining room area where his "office" is set up. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes.
"What the HELL!? Oh GOD! Uh...uh...he, uh - Oh god. WHERE is he?"
Okay fine, I'll get off of my butt - this sounds serious. I got up, turned around toward the hallway with the bathroom in it, and was rewarded with the sight of my son, standing in a puddle of diarrhea, boxer shorts on, poo on his hands, poo running down the wall where he was leaning, a look of terror on his little face. The terror was legit, because we've added in negative reinforcement (one smack on the bum when he doesn't go to the toilet) to the positive reinforcement (hershey's kisses when he gets it right, washes his hands, etc.) over the last 3 or 4 weeks, since he CAN do it, he's just NOT doing it. I'm sure he thought he was going to die, but diarrhea while potty training is TOTALLY extenuating circumstances.
Have I mentioned he was hiding behind the bathroom door? He had it open and was behind it, so Matt, standing in the kitchen couldn't see him. And I couldn't see the kitchen.
"Found him," and I shut the door. Oh dear god.
The stench was obviously poopish smelling at this point - how did I miss that before? And it was. *gag* There was a turd - a turd! - the size of my fist sitting in a puddle of poo on my kitchen floor, some of it on the rug (thankfully washable). There were footprints if you looked closely at the brown "slate" linoleum floor, footprints from the egregiously incorrect deposit, down the hall to where he was leaning against the wall.
I busted up laughing, I couldn't help it. Matt at this point was giggling in horror ("It's the laughter that comes before the drinking."), standing in the kitchen rubbing his head. SG started to smile at me, so I frowned at him. His little face fell, and a snorting giggle escaped me, and he started to smile hopefully again while drawing with his foot in the puddle of poop he still stood in. I frowned at him.
"WHERE are you supposed to poop?"
"Indetoilet."
"Where DID you poop?"
"Indekitchin."
"Don't do that. Does your tummy hurt?"
"Um, No?"
"Poop in the toilet, okay?"
"Okay..."
Matt was, by this point working on cleaning it up, so I stood over SG, ready to grab him (I really preferred not to though) if he tried to make a break for it. Then we switched, and I grabbed a garbage bag, opened it, and held it out for Matt to put SG in, so he could carry him up to the shower without dripping on the way. This was apparently confirmation in SG's mind that he was REALLY in trouble. When Matt set him down in the tub (still in the garbage bag), he asked Matt - in rapidly mounting fear - if he was going into the trash truck.
Meanwhile, I'd pulled out my trusty Hoover Steam Vac, poured bleach into it (again) and went to work on the floor. I Tilex-ed (it was there, it was bleach, and it was in a spray bottle) the wall and door for several feet in all directions of the drips, and the sponge got chucked after that. The rug went back into the washer (again).
He spent the rest of the day in pull ups, in case his little belly wasn't done yet. He seems to be fine now. We've yet to recover.
