The Day the ‘Heavy Seven’ Met Their Match

by Jen Telger



Back in 2016, I had a day that will live in infamy. I know, I know, that sounds overly dramatic. Read on.

It’s been an interesting day. I say that as I lay in bed, laptop on my lap, brownie/ice cream/chocolate sauce in my tummy, and both kids asleep. I say that because the day is over. I say that because it was a day that made me laugh out loud at one of the worst phrase combinations I have ever had directed at me as a mom.

George Carlin used to speak about a list. Those of you familiar with George’s comedy are likely familiar with it, as well. For those of you not in the know, it was a group of seven words that you cannot, under any circumstances, say on TV– the “Heavy Seven”, as George called them. I won’t dole out the list here, in part due to the fact that the words are NOT nice, save for a milder one (the “s” word) that I find to be particularly useful and appropriate at times, and in part due to the fact that, no matter how bad, they don’t hold a candle to the words I heard this afternoon.

The day started out innocently enough. We all got up and the kids and I were playing and having fun. By about 10:00, I noticed our son’s right eye was starting to give him some trouble. Just a little watery with an occasional goop ball thrown in. By 11:00, I was calling the doc’s office saying, “I have a 20-month-old with pinkeye.”

We were given a 1:20 appt. The Lad went down for a short nap (short for him, he usually does ~3 hours), I took a shower and played a bit with the Lass and then we headed over to the clinic. The verdict? Possibly pinkeye, but more likely a deeper tissue infection draining through his eye. Possible sinus infection, etc. Antibiotics prescribed. The good news was that while he was pretty torqued off, he was pretty much leaving his eye alone. With that diagnosis under our belt, we scrapped all plans for shopping. I know there are moms out there that will “get my errands done come hell or high water,” but I cannot and will not intentionally expose the rest of the world to a potentially contagious affliction in the futile hope that the rest of the world will bestow the same courtesy on me. And so, home it was.

A short while later, after wrestling him on the kitchen floor, trying to get his meds in–the scrip is for 6mL 2x day and, of course, the pharmacy provided a 5mL syringe <sigh>–the kids were playing nicely in his room. I was standing out in the hallway listening to their banter as they pretended that a baby bathtub was a boat. They were having a blast, and I was enjoying eavesdropping. Since they appeared to be wrapped up in their game, I decided to augment my abbreviated lunch with another Corn and Black Bean Salsa Burrito with Chicken and Rice. I was working on grilling the second tortilla when I heard the Lass go into the bathroom. I went to see if she needed any help. She was on her brother’s little potty instead of the big potty (a recent trend, for whatever reason) and the boy was sitting on the floor next to her, keeping her company. “I have to go peeps and poops mom, but I need him.” Fair enough, they were behaving beautifully and often like to keep each other company on important missions.

It was as I was finishing up the first side of the last tortilla that I heard those horrible words. Those eight, terrible, horrifying words. Our daughter’s little voice came hollering distantly out of the bathroom as if from across the neighborhood. But I heard it just the same: “Mo-om! We had an accident…. there’s poop EVERYWHERE!” Oh. Dear. God.

As I pulled the pan off the burner and headed for the bathroom I had two scenario’s in my head. My first thought was of little poo marbles all over the floor and the Lad picking them up. The second was more hippo-like. If you’ve ever seen a hippo do its business, you know what I mean. I quickly dismissed that one as it’s just not our kids’ style to paint with poo. I did not, however, imagine the scene that presented itself behind that door.

As I entered the bathroom, two things registered immediately: first, the Lad was nowhere near the poo (thank God!), but rather was standing quite still, gawping at his sister who was standing equally still just 18-inches away. The next thing to register was the fact that the Lass was holding the closed potty seat out in front of her. The rest of the scene sank in when she said, “I needed to move the poops away from him.” I took the potty seat from her and surveyed the carnage. She had picked up the entire potty, accidently dousing herself with the contents as she held it against herself and turned around. The result was pee and poo on the rug, the bathmat, her foot, her leg (mind you, she’s standing there with her feet apart to avoid the poo with her pants and undies around her ankles), her shirt and, yes, a smidge of her long hair. She was remarkably un-phased by the whole thing, instead thinking it very “silly.”

I stood there for a few seconds, trying to determine the appropriate order of operations. Right, first thing, remove the boy. Out you go, son. Next, um, um, um, ok, wipe up floor. Damn, no paper towels, only toilet paper which, conveniently, is nearly out. “Hang on, honey.” Yeah, she hadn’t moved a muscle. At this point, I was laughing out loud. Out to the kitchen for paper towels and antibacterial cleaner. Back to the bathroom, clean up floor, take rug, bathmat, and nasty garbage into our bathroom for quarantine. Next, undress the poo-meister and toss her in the tub.

One thing about our kids: they love baths. Giving one a bath without including the other is very difficult. But there was no way I was going to mix Mr. Infectious and Ms. Poobody in the same tub. So, in went the Lass. We washed and she played and the Lad tried to climb in repeatedly. He finally managed to get his sleeve wet so off came his shirt and a new, short-sleeved one, went on. I sort of felt that I had the situation well in hand. Then the Lad dumped a pitcher of water down the front of himself. So much for dry clothes.

The Lass finished up and I got her out and dried off. The Lad was on deck and he knew it. He could hardly wait! I drew his bath, stripped him down to his diaper and then checked the front to see if he needed to go potty before he got in. His dipe was soaked, so I figured he was all set. Off came the dipe. My little man proceeded to pee all over the floor. Not a little pee, mind you; enough pee to sail the Spanish armada. Somehow, I managed to have the presence of mind to be grateful that the bathmat was already in triage and not an additional target while I had running water, a toddler, and a loose fire hose to deal with. By this time I was afraid to put the Lad in the tub for fear of what Murphy had in mind next. Thankfully, his bath went off without a hitch and the rest of the afternoon was quiet.

And so, after today, I really feel like the Heavy Seven have nothin’ on me. The eight words that I heard strung together are enough to strike the fear of God into a body. If nothing else, the s-word should come off the Heavy Seven list and shouldn’t even be considered a curse word. There are simply times when it is the only appropriate word to use. Today, it encompassed my verbal reaction, my sentiments, and described the enemy at hand all at the same time. What more can you ask for from four little letters?

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