May I preface this blog post by saying that I really need to reveal just a teensy bit about me so that you may understand my situation.....
I have a disease. One that keeps me from not being 2.3 minutes away from any restroom facility. Really, enough said. No gory details here. Just a heads-up that this is my life and I have every bathroom scoped out from Mayberry to every square block of our Metropolis that we frequent. If there are no bathrooms handy, well....I have every isolated field, grove, parking lot and back alley scoped out as well.
Today was the day I chose to take Izzy to his Pediatric doctor. He has been complaining of pain in his stomach for over a month. He eats just a tiny little bit and his stomach hurts again. Izzy is lethargic and complains of being tired. I think to myself that either he is :
B. is anorexic and trying to keep his weight down to fit in to this prom dress
C. has my disease and if so, he should shoot himself in the head now....really.
Me? I'm busy.
"God! Do I have to take this kid to the doctor? For Christ's sake! He's totally playing me. He just doesn't want to eat his frickin gourmet, caper laden, parmesan wielding pasta laced with white truffle oil for dinner. For fucks sake!"
Repeat after me. Bad Mom! BAD MOM!
Sigh....after a thorough investigation of Izzy's belly, it appears that the child has GASTRITIS. Sounds benign. The kids got a little gas...right?
Apparently he has to be on medication for 2 weeks to basically zap his bacterial-laced innards of any ability to produce gastric juices. Poor little guy!
Yes....say it again, "bad mom...BAD MOM!"
So when I raced home today to take care of myself....you know, bathroom details, I told Izzy I was going to the restroom and to not bother me. Ummmm yeah, he forgot.
While I was immersed in business fairly similar to the scene from "Dumb and Dumber" after one of the Dumb's drink was laced with a laxative, I hear a high pitched scream.
May I also say that Izzy pitches his "High C's" if he has a hangnail or if he has just cut off his left nut with a dull knife. I ignored Izzy while intermittenly yelling, "Privacy please. PRIVACY PLEASE!"
When I emerged from the bathroom, I saw Izzy standing there covered in feces. His own I might add. From neck to toe Izzy was caked. Apparently he was scared that I would be mad at him for his terrible accident (that had everything to do with his sickness and nothing to do with him) and took off his shirt to try to clean up the mess....um...but yeah, hands and hair, clothes and belly covered in shit.
I escorted poor little Izzy to the shower and told him that I was going to start the laundry and clean up the mess that covered the floor and walls on three full stories. I wasn't mad at him, I just needed to take care of some things while he was in the shower. That's when the screaming started again....and didn't stop for about 34.3 minutes.
It was a lovely day full of surprises! How was yours? Any shit stories you would like to share?