Poo Bombs

I'm beginning to think that life centers around poo. Could be my current occupation, but the idea is beginning to grow on me.

The other day I was covering for another teacher in her classroom as she ran to get something. In the 15 minutes she was gone, a toddler exploded.

I was unaware that Garrett wasn't fully potty trained, blissfully unaware that he needed help wiping and completely unaware he'd try it out by himself first even if he couldn't. After about 3 minutes in the bathroom G-dog pokes his head around the corner and says, imploringly, "Jessy?"

"What do you need, Big Guy?" I responded.
"Help?" He questioned, not quite sure what he needed.
"Okay, I'm coming." I take three steps towards the bathroom and freeze. Before me lay a battleground in which G-man and the bathroom had fought, using poo as ammunition much like artillery shells that covered the Beaches of Normandy on D-Day. I was astounded not only at the sheer volume of the feces but also at the height and distance it had reached...had he been throwing it? Had the tiles been tossing it back at him?

I had to hold back my reaction to keep from scaring the poor kid. I had never seen such utter disaster in all my life and I had been there during OKC Bombing.

I said, "Alright buddy, let me help you get cleaned up. Do you have to go anymore?" (The last bit I found out, by way of default, is necessary to the cleaning process.)

"No, I'm done." (I think the Bathroom had frightened it out of him. And just to bring home the sheer devestation...the little guy had somehow managed to get it between his toes.)

A full package of wipes and half a spray bottle of bleach later Boy and Bathroom were clean*.

(*No child or animal was harmed by bleach during these events. I did, however, briefly consider taking a blowtorch to the bathroom. )