Let's Play a New Game - Poop or Bread?

I didn't think potty training could get any worse than Gee peeing on the baby or answering the door in my bra. Tempt fates much? I'm still recovering from a Messter Map incident of catastrophic proportions.

The recipe for disaster went like this. Saige pooped in the Elmo potty. She does it all the time. She's a rock star. I wiped and put her back in the playroom. Between that moment and clean up, I got distracted, possibly by email but I'm not confessing to anything. I plead the fifth and insanity.

I may or may not, while I was possibly checking email, have forgotten about the baby for a few minutes, while perhaps, hypothetically speaking, leaving the gate open to the hall. Wherein resides the Elmo potty. A very few nanoseconds later, I heard a happy baby squeal, indicating a very happy baby. Only two things make Cue that happy. The Elmo potty and free access to dangerous electronics. My mind focused and my heart thumped. I high tailed it to the hall and found the baby joyfully climbing up the hardwood stairs. Phew!! Nothing more serious than imminent brain damage via totally preventable stair related accident.

As I scooped him up, I noticed, simultaneously, that he had a nasty odor and that there was mooshy bread scattered all over the hall floor.

My Brain: Mooshy bread???? Pourquoi mooshy bread??
Cue: Ah-ah-ah-ah aeeeeiiiii.
My Brain: Where did he get bread? Soggy from what?? His mouth? So much bread. He can't reach the bread.
Cue: Nah! Gah! Nah! aeeeeeiiiii.
Me: (to Cue) Do you have a poopy diaper? What's in your mouth? Are you eating brea.....

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOT BREAD. TOILET PAPER. DIRTY URINE SOAKED TOILET PAPER WITH POOP ON IT!!! (Whispering in shame and horror: From the Elmo potty. Which I neglected to dump, post poop.)

No. No. No. Say it isn't true. Please let me not have allowed my year old baby to eat dirty toilet paper and make paper mache projects with it across my hall floor.

I peeked gingerly into the Elmo potty. Empty.

Cue continued smiling unperturbed by eating dirty toilet paper. I dry heaved for several moments before I could get a hold of myself.

What to do? Dunk the baby in bleach? Probably not. Wash the baby's mouth out with hand sanitizer? Again, probably not the best choice. In the end, I stripped him and washed him in soapy water, and then I washed the floor and then me. I gave him a bottle because there just had to be a nasty taste in his happy, little mouth. He ate dirty toilet paper. I thought about putting a little rum in the milk, for germ killing purposes only, but I restrained myself from giving rum to the baby. I didn't restrain myself at all from giving it to me. Medicinal. Shock recovery.


For all my stress, he suffered zero ill effects as far as I can tell. Which teaches a valuable lesson. The expression EAT SHIT AND DIE. Not true. It should be revised to read: EAT SHIT AND WATCH YOUR MOTHER DIE. Of horror. The end.