Arden, age 2 1/2

Earlier this week, my nephew Arden turned a whopping ELEVEN YEARS OLD. It seems like just a couple years ago when he was a naughty little two year old, running around and getting his grimy hands on everything (and I’d follow him with a paper towel in one hand and a bottle of Fantastik in the other).

Everyone said that once I had my own kid, the dirt, snot, poo and other bodily fluids wouldn’t bother me anymore. They were mostly right— dirt, snot or poo didn’t bother me at all. But I still can’t handle any kind of saliva or drool. And I definitely can’t handle vomit. Not even my own. (See below.)

But back then, ALL of it bothered me. IMMENSELY.

I still remember in horrific, vivid detail The McDonalds Playland Incident ™ where he got a little too busy and “forgot” that he was potty trained. This even after my mother (who had custody of him at the time) ASSURED me that he hadn’t had any accidents in months. Yeah, riiiight.

I have checked my archives and will repost the story for you below:

Playland & Pull-Ups
December 02, 2001 08:58 AM

The secret to surviving seven hours with Arden is to take him places. First stop: McDonalds. It has a Playland! I can sit there, smile, wave, and let him expend every ounce of energy he has. Little did I know, the both of us were going to expend much, much more than energy.

Note: Extremely gross story to follow; do not read if you have a weak stomach.

Arden is in the middle of potty training. The past few weeks, my mom has made great progress with him, though, because whenever he has to go #2, he tells you first. That is what she told me when she dropped him off, anyway.

So after about two hours at the Playland, he walked up to me and said he had to go to the bathroom. I took him into the bathroom, pulled down his pants, and saw that he’d had a very nasty accident. Not having any extra Pull-Ups in the car, I didn’t know what else to do but dispose of the nasty Pull-Up, and lifted him up on the toilet. The second his butt made contact, I noticed he had poop all over him. All over his butt, the inside and backs of his legs, even on his pee pee. Which, of course, transferred onto the toilet seat. OH. MY. GOD.

He was yelling “Yucky – get it off!” and I was frantically looking around for paper towels but there were none! I was going to have to clean it all off with toilet paper!

By that point, he was scratching himself, or playing with himself, or whatever 3-year-old boys do, so he was getting poo all over his hands as well. I hissed, “Oh gross, DON’T touch it!” and hurriedly wiped as much off of his legs and butt as much as I could, but without being able to get the toilet paper wet, it was a lost cause. There was nothing else I could do but put his pants back on, hope he didn’t have another accident, rush home, clean him up and put another diaper and pair of pants on.

When I pulled his pants back on, he was touching my shoulders to keep his balance. I tried not to hurl at the thought of his poop-encrusted fingers touching my tee shirt, arms and hair, but that was only the beginning of the dry heaves. I stood up, took a few deep breaths, and lifted him up to wash his hands. There was no soap in the dispenser! Could this get any WORSE?!?

I told him to rub his hands together, being unwilling to touch them myself, but he couldn’t get it all off. I gave him a big wad of toilet paper and went to work on the toilet seat.

I lost it. Halfway through wiping it all off, I heaved up the quarter pounder I had less than two hours before. And heaved again. And again. All the while, Arden is standing there staring at me with disgust like *I* was the gross one that couldn’t control my body functions. I flushed the toilet after every heave, thinking I could regain my composure if I weren’t staring at vomit. But it kept coming, with every other swipe of the toilet seat.

I swear it took me twenty minutes to get that toilet cleaned up.

After getting him home and cleaning him (and myself) up, I immediately called my mom and bitched at her for misleading me, but she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to commiserate. She didn’t understand why this particular accident caused me to hurl. After all, I’ve changed his diaper dozens upon dozens of times. The problem is whenever I lean over a toilet, I feel the urge to yark, and if there’s anything even remotely gross on it, I can’t control myself.

I am desperately trying to erase the memory of what happened yesterday, but I think I can chalk this one up in the “Reasons why I should never have children” column.

I will not allow my mother to drop Arden off with Pull-Ups ever again. They are worthless. Diapers only, please. At least they keep it contained.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

First of all, I can’t BELIEVE I didn’t have any extra Pull Ups in the car. WTF was I THINKING?! Was I planning on just letting him sit and stew in it if he had an accident? Knowing me… probably. *snicker*

Secondly, even if I did forget the Pull Ups, how could I EVER forget the wipes?! Wipes are an absolute MUST, even with children who aren’t in diapers!

Thirdly, how cool is it that I knew even then that surviving a full day with a toddler is to keep them busy and take them places?!

Arden in April 2009

But I digress… I was talking about my now-eleven-year-old nephew. Diapers—for him, anyway— are a long, long time ago. He’s a smug little “tween” now who scowls when you take his picture instead of smiles. He likes girls and Grand Theft Auto and can recite long conversations from Phineas and Ferb. He likes to sneak in the word “nuts” whenever he can and he fancies himself a skateboarder. And for some strange reason, he likes hanging out with us, so we’re going to go get him this weekend and take him somewhere cool for his birthday.