Friday, June 17, 2011

Grime Scene

I have this friend.

She's one of the sweetest, most generous, big-hearted people you'll ever meet.  She'd give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.  She remembers and honors every occasion in your life, no matter how trivial.  And she's one of the most creative people I've ever known, starting her own business from scratch, and becoming so exclusive she has clients the likes of which I can't even name on a public, say for example, a certain really tall German basketball player...or a certain pilot who may or may not be exceptionally good at landing planes in rivers...yes, my friend is that good.

I owe her a huge debt of gratitude for my family, too.  She and her husband introduced me to Chris.  And her mother-in-law was pivotal in Aria's adoption.  And our husbands are best friends.  Our kids are engaged to be married  best friends.

She's the kind of person that makes everything look so effortless.  She can pack 36 hours into a 24 hour day, and still manage to look fresh and beautiful and well-rested.  It would be easy to hate her if she wasn't one of the dearest people in my life, and so darn sweet and wonderful.

But I made a decision last night.

I'm never talking to my friend again.

That's right. 

Never.  Talking to her again.

On the phone.

Because apparently, my children are both gifted with a sixth sense and can alway detect when I'm talking on the phone to this particular friend.  And it is at these times they choose, how do I put this pleasantly?  Oh heck, ya'll, there's nothing pleasant about it.  Whenever I'm on the phone with my friend, my children choose to...EXPEL WASTE FROM THEIR BODIES.  There.  I said it. 

Do you remember this last year?  The Code Brown when sweet Aria Grace handed me her poop?  Yep.  That was this friend on the phone.

Or how about the Chanel Mommy post?  Where Aria dropped trow to pee in our front yard?   Indeed.  Same friend.  Same phone.

But here's the thing.  Aria's long been toilet-trained, so we should be over any potty issues at this point, right?  Caroline's just twenty months old, so she's sitting on her little pink potty every once in awhile because she thinks it's cute and she sees Ya-Ya doing it, but it's not real honest-to-goodness potty-training, just a low-pressure gig.  So you'd think I'd be safe to chat away with my friends without fear of scatological repercussion, right?

You'd be wrong.

So, so wrong.

In case you can't tell what I found when entering my daughter's room yesterday - while ON THE PHONE with SAID FRIEND - here's a close-up view.

Come to find out, after further investigation of the grime scene (yes, thought that up all on my own), my little daughter apparently removed her diaper, emptied it, wrung it out (just a guess on that one, I have no proof), and then pulled her shorts back up on that dirty little hiney. 

What did I do?   I did what any parent would do in this situation:   I ran to the window and hollered down for Chris to come upstairs and take care of his daughter.   No, no.   Kidding.   I walked back out and close the door and pretended I never saw it.   Nope, kidding again.   Actually, my very, very initial thought when I encountered the crime scene was, "Oh great. More laundry."   And then I burst out laughing and said to my friend, ON THE PHONE,  "Oh.  Ma.  Gosh.   It's happened A-GAIN.   I have a Code Brown!   I repeat, a Code Brown!   Lemme call ya back". 

The mess?  Oh, the mess.  It was everywhere.  All over the bed, the bedding, the wall, the carpet, her Blankies, her stuffed animals, her clothes.  And of course, my phone pictures didn't capture the best (worst?) part.  Girlfriend had it under her fingernails.  I kid you not.  I do not jest. 

I would never jest about poop.

So to my friend:  I have made the monumental decision that we cannot speak by phone again.  Sure, we can email.  Text.  Hit me up on skype.  And we'll for sure swap poop stories over Sauvignon Blanc like the good old days.  But chatting on the phone?  Nope, no way.  Those days are gone. 

For the sake of my sanity, my abundant use of Clorox wipes, and the exploitation of my washer and dryer, I cannot risk another Code while we chat.

Sorry, girl.  It's just the way it has to be.


She's so proud of herself, isn't she?


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