So, as mentioned in my last post, I have been sick since Wednesday.
This means I have spent a lot of time on the couch watching tv with the kids.
The other night, we were still working on season one of the Glee dvds, when Terran, my seven year old, gets up, and goes to stand behind one of the couches.
At first I don’t really pay attention.
But when he doesn’t come back to sit with me, I ask, “What’s wrong?”
He says, “Nothing. I just want to watch tv from back here.”
I stare at him for a couple of seconds, then say, “Do you know, when you were a baby, you used to hide behind the couch to fill your diapers.”
Then I go back to watching Glee.
I don’t notice Terran leave the living room, but from the bathroom he calls out, “Can I take a bath?”
“Sure,” I say.
A few minutes later, my husband, Wayne, comes to get me. “Have you had diarrhea with this flu?” he asks.
“No,” I say, “That’s about the only thing I haven’t had.”
“Well, Terran just pooped in his pants. Not a lot, but he’s cleaning up right now.”
I check on Terran while he’s in the bath, and say, “Terran, if you had to poop, why did you just stay behind the couch? Wouldn’t it have been better if you had gone to the bathroom?”
He replies, “I didn’t think I could make it. My stomach was grumbling.”
Ok. Whatever. It’s not like this is a recurring event.
Although me making that little crack about him standing behind the couch to fill his diaper when he was a baby only served to provide my wise-ass 14 year old with an entire repertoire of bad jokes.
When Terran returned to watch Glee with us, the 14 year old promptly asked him, “Terran, how many bathrooms do we have in this house?”
Terran answered, “Four,” and began naming them off.
The teenager replies, “You forgot the fifth one: behind the couch!” Then cue to the peels of his hysterical laughter, as he pats himself on the back for his genius.
A few days later, still fighting a losing battle with the flu, I’m in the living room attempting to feel human by vacuuming. I figure a little housework is sure to frighten the virus away.
So I’m doing my thing when suddenly, my stomach starts churning and grumbling, and I’m like, “Oh shit.”
I look around me, estimating which bathroom is closest.
The teenager is in the living room, and says, “What’s wrong?”
I reply, “I don’t feel very good. I think I’ve caught Terran’s diarrhea.”
Clenching as hard as I can, I dash up the stairs, fly through the hallway, whip into the bathroom, drop my drawers, but…I’m too late.
The accident wasn’t of monumental proportions, but shit is shit.
The walk of shame to the laundry room, one hand clutching that pile of humiliation, is a long, cold road filled with spectators, some mean WAYNE, calling out from the sidelines, “It’s better to be thinkin’, than stinkin’!” and others, more forgiving and innocent about the fall from grace, telling me, “Did you poop your pants too Mom? It’s not a big deal. Were you scared a nugget would roll out from your pants onto the floor too?”
And then there’s the teenager.
The teenager who has taken your shit for 14 years. Listened to your unwanted advice. Done what he was told even though he thought it was unnecessary to his mental and physical development.
The teenager who has been waiting for this exact moment his entire adolescent existence.
The teenager says, “So I hear you crapped your pants? If you didn’t think you could make it to the toilet, you should have just gone there…” and points behind the couch.