Sh—Happens. The Cleanup Matters.

Last fall, my husband and I drove to a historic town about two hours from our home, hoping to spend the day strolling down quaint little streets, flanked by shops with perfect holiday finds for people who have everything. During our drive, I asked my husband, “So what’s your perfect afternoon look like?” He replied, “First we do some shopping (He always knows what to say). Then we find this little gourmet deli, like the one in Nantucket, and order sandwiches with a dill or horseradish mayonnaise. And we find a nice little park bench to sit on and eat lunch. Just me and my girls. That’s all I want.” It seemed so simple.

Well, we never did find that deli, or the park bench. After scoping out a few empty restaurants (never a good sign), we decided to leave early and head towards our favorite ice cream shop, Thomas’s Sweets. If nothing else, we would end up eating some really yummy ice cream; I could live with that.

To make a long story short, a few u-turns later, we settled on a small town pizzeria in I-don’t-know-where. I guess the ice cream wasn’t meant to be. We were both tired and hungry, trying to remain upbeat for our one-year-old daughter, who hadn’t even made a fuss; bless her soul. On our way out the door, I lifted my daughter for the ‘ol sniff test, and something wasn’t quite right. As strange as this may sound, you learn your child’s smells. In a room full of kids, I know if she’s the pooper. But this one was different. “Smell her,” I said, holding her bottom up to my husband.

That’s when I saw it. The leak. “Oh, God. Get her outside.” In the middle of downtown who-knows-where, I needed to get my daughter out of those pants fast; it would have been nice to do it without creating an all-out scene. This is no exaggeration: it was a mudslide. Clearly, a two-man operation. In the middle of the sidewalk, my daughter arched her back and giggled as I, frazzled, tried to wiggle her pants down her legs, now entirely painted in poop. And all the while, she had the audacity to laugh! We bid farewell to those brand-new pink pants, and my child went sans pants for the drive home. She was as happy as a pig in sh--.

I share this story, because as moms, we need to develop and nurture our sense of humor. It’s easy to get bogged down in the muck (not too far from the truth!) These days, I’m trying not to take myself too seriously. Sh-- happens. How you clean it up matters- with empathy, understanding, and a little bit of humor. It’s that simple.