Last night, my husband was feeding Harlow a bottle in the nursery while I was reading on the couch to Mazzy.
Suddenly, he called my name in a very alarmed fashion.
"Ilana! Get in here!"
I dropped the book, left Mazzy on the couch and went to see what was the matter.
"What is it?"
Mike remained in the glider feeding Harlow while he pointed to the corner of the room looking absolutely horrified.
"WHAT. IS. THAT???"
A huge ugly turd was sitting on the floor next to Mazzy's pink patent leather shoes. We'd been having issues with Mazzy refusing to poop in the potty, but this was uncharted territory.
I kept my distance. "Is that what I think it is?"
"I don't know. YOU are the one closest to it. You tell me." my husband said, still seated.
Mind you, this is probably the only time in the history of the baby that Mike has been the one feeding Harlow before bedtime. And now here I am, responsible for inspecting and probably cleaning up what was clearly a shitastically solid mound of preschooler poop.
"Mazzy!" I called. "Get in here!"
Mazzy came in.
"Mazzy. Did you poop in the corner?"
"I didn't poop."
"It's ok, honey. We all make mistakes. You just have to tell us. How long has it been there?"
"I didn't poop, Mom."
"Well, I didn't poop. And Daddy didn't poop. And Harlow didn't poop..."
Mazzy took a few steps closer to inspect. "Don't touch it!" I yelled as visions of poop stained hands streaking our wallpaper filled my head.
I sighed loudly in Mazzy's direction and then left to get a paper towel. I came back with the whole roll.
It wasn't until I had the wad of paper towels cupping the turd that I realized something.
Mazzy was right. She didn't poop.
Someone had just outed my twenty-year-old Monchichi for sporting a toupee...
I confused him for a piece of shit.
But at least I didn't wrongly accuse him of pooping on the floor. (Sorry, Mazzy!)