So I had planned to begin 2009 with a meaningful, thought-driven post about my resolutions for 2009, about what a great year it’s gonna be, and how ready I am for it.

Instead, I’m going to preface this story with this: IT IS NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH.  SERIOUSLY.  I PUKE IN THIS STORY BECAUSE I GOT GROSSED OUT.  AND IF YOU DARE COMMENT WITH ANY JUDGEMENT ABOUT MY RE/ACTIONS, I WILL FOREVER HAUNT YOU IN YOUR DREAMS, WITH THE STUFF THAT THIS STORY IS MADE OF.

We woke up this morning renewed; New Year’s Day is often like that.  You feel foolishly optimistic, like you can do anything, so we cashed in on that.  The tree is down and gone, and all but ONE LITTLE CHRISTMAS THING THAT I CAN’T REACH is put away for the year.  The house is clean, we had laundry going, and all seemed right with the world.

When I held Binja to me at some point, I smelled something.. odd.  I thought maybe he needed a diaper change, because.. again, it was just OFF.  It was a sweet, pungent smell that I couldn’t place.  While changing his diaper, I threw his pajama pants at Bryan and said, “Smell those.”  Bryan knows better than to question me after all these years, because I will smell/taste/drink just about anything because I’m told to.  Asking “Why?” doesn’t delay my insistence.

He sniffed them.  ”Yep, I thought I smelled that earlier when I got him out of his crib,” he concluded.  ”It smells like stale cat pee.” (For the record, I don’t think cat pee has a sweet smell.)

Our remaining feline, Friday, is 16 or 17 years old.  Although spry, he’s starting to show his age and has, of late, been a little.. unpredictable when it comes to his bathroom habits.  He recently relieved himself in my computer bag (THANK THE GODS OF NASA THAT MY COMPUTER WAS NOT IN IT AT THE TIME), and as we talked about this, I saw him stalking the corners of the room.  I eyed him suspiciously.  ”Something is up with your cat,” I said.

We went on about our day.  

Bryan left to pick up The Boy from The Green, and I was busying myself around the house.  I decided to get Binja’s bed stripped and in the wash, and since he was playing quietly in The Boy’s room (and I’ve arranged it so there’s nothing dangerous for him in there), I went about stripping said crib and dumping it in the wash.  Seriously, the child was alone for maybe ten minutes, tops, but I’m inclined to say more like six.

I came back to The Boy’s room and marveled from the doorway how happy Binja was to be in there.  He was quietly playing in a corner, his back to me, carefully handling a toy truck.  I approached him and smelled a familiar.. fecal.. smell.  I figured I had another diaper change in my future.

AND THEN THINGS WENT HORRIBLY, HORRIBLY WRONG.

He turned me with what can only be described as a shit-eating grin.  Why, oh why, Sarah, would you refer to it as such?  BECAUSE HE WAS COVERED IN SHIT.  Shit was all over his hands, his shirt, the toys he had been playing with, the carpet around him, and OHGODNO, his face.  His face.  HIS MOUTH.

I immediately ran to the bathroom and heaved because, eww.  Gross.

Once that was accomplished, I yanked that child up and threw him in the bathtub.  The smell was everywhere, fresh and organic, and eww, and ohmygod, and why in the hell did I leave him alone this long?

And I realized I have been blogging too long, because all I could think about was this post where Lindsay’s little boy wanders in his own diaper out of sheer boredom and ate his own poo. (Unrelatedly odd: she referenced that post today, after all of my grossness had been calmed down.) And as I wiped him clean with a washcloth that will never see the light of day again, I kept thinking, “Why would he eat his own poo?  Is this something ALL little boys do?  Am I missing out on something?  Is poo really delicious and no one ever knows?  Why do we have so many judgements against people eating weird things?”

While I was mindlessly running through these inane questions, I shook the diaper off the baby: no evidence of shit in there.  In fact, it was completely dry.  Nothing in there.  Nothing but booty.

The water was running, and I was not thinking clearly because I was trying to decipher why The Boy would poo in his room rather than use the bathroom down the hall, and maybe I don’t clean it enough and he finds it too disgusting to use? when I realized I was trying to stuff Binja’s clothes into the Diaper Champ.  With amazing success, I might add.

And then I saw the crib, stripped of all its bedding.

And then I realized: OHMYHOLYHELL, MY CHILD ATE CAT POO.

And then I realized: HEY, YOU LEFT YOUR KID IN THE BATHTUB, DUMB ASS.

I made myself calm down and breathe, trying to remember if child birth classes taught me ANYTHING regarding the ingestion of feline fecal matter.  I recalled the word “meconium”, but that didn’t help me much.  Props to me for vocab recall, though.  The baby was happily splashing around in the bath and I realized that he seemed okay.  He was clean and smelled like vanilla shea butter instead of, you know, digested Meow Mix and grass, so that was a definite improvement.  And after the bath and a bottle, he was ready to take a long nap.  I don’t blame him.  I was ready for a top-shelf long island tea, myself.

All Bryan and The Boy could do was stare wide-eyed as I relayed the story, the color draining from my face.  Then they laughed.  Hysterically.  They thought it was the funniest thing they had heard in a long time.  Yeah.  Ha. Ha ha ha.

It’s now been eight hours or so and the baby really does seem to be fine.  I am still a bit.. um.. skeeved out by the events of the day, but I’m glad it all turned out alright.  But if that baby wakes up tomorrow purring and hissing..

I’m taking his ass to daycare.

(Yes, I do know that fecal matter of the feline variety does carry some INSANE disease.  I am keeping a very close eye on this.  Please don’t send any more hate mail about me neglecting my child.)