How do you wash poop?

I googled that question. Not until after I'd already washed poop down multiple drains of my house. I don't use cloth diapers because I want as little contact with poop as possible. I delayed motherhood for 32 years over the question of whether I be able to change a diaper. Ever. Dog poop makes me gag uncontrollably. Potty training freaks me out. Two babies and I never touched meconium. Cleaning up that poopy tar was Scott's penance for my labor. And, aside from a few disgusting newborn poop incidents - up-the-back explosions that turn the world yellow - things really haven't been that ... poopy. Sure there have been a few turds in the bathtub. (There were a few months when that should have been the name of our blog.) But, until last night I really didn't have any good poop stories. This one is a contender for the Top 10 Most Laughable Moments of My Mothering Career, right after the Baby Powder Incident:

It's been a long weekend stuck inside painting and cleaning the house. On Sunday night, Scott and I decide to put the kids to bed and eat a nice adult dinner. So, while he cooks I give the kids a bath. Some new soap has been waiting on the rim of the tub for two days and Sawyer CAN'T WAIT to get his hands on it. He hits the tub like Zest Man, scrubbing his cares away. But, as I rinse off Arden, disaster strikes. Soap gets in Sawyer's eyes and - despite the Johnson's label - it wasn't tear proof. (This is why I'm a soap snob). He's rubbing his eyes, making it worse and screaming bloody hell.

I put a dripping and naked Arden on the 2-by-3 bathroom shag. (She promptly crawls off). I grip Sawyer's head and force him to wash his eyes and then his hands under the running water. Hysteria wanes but bath time is officially over. Both kids are crying, wet and naked in Sawyer's bedroom. I look over the loft wall and eye Scott outside happily and obliviously grilling away. I get Arden dressed and find that Sawyer has pulled a jacket out of his drawer and is trying to put it on like pants. He won't listen to me (he's apparently forgotten what jackets are). I show him how to put the jacket on properly. Sometimes it's just easier to put the jacket on than to explain to a two year old why we don't put jackets on at bedtime. We find him some pajama pants and head downstairs to put Arden to bed and kiss Daddy goodnight. Dinner is ready so we decide to let Sawyer play a little longer while we eat. Halfway through my steak, which I am appreciating for its perfection, Scott asks me if I put a diaper on Sawyer. There's a long silence while I replay the scene in my mind. . . . Soap. Crying. Jacket. Pants. Hmmm.

Afraid to turn around, I asked Scott how he could tell that I forgot. Need I even say? Poop. Running down the legs of his pajama pants. I sweep him up at an arms length and carry him upstairs where I deal like a steel-stomached superwoman while Scott gags in the corner. I am here to tell you that dog poop is worse. But then there we are, wondering: How do you wash poop? (How's that for a question you never really want answered?) The worst part is that we then have to redo the whole bath scene with Sawyer - still traumatized by the Blinding Soap Incident. It takes two of us to get him bathed and dressed the second time.

No kidding, this parenting stuff is the hardest thing I've ever done.