This is a story that is partially about kid poop, so I understand if you need to go now. I won’t be offended if you move on to something else on this site like “Pretty Nail Polish Colors for Summer 2011!” or “10 Great Books for Your Eurorail Trip to Meet Mystery Men!” Those stories will be fun and light. You will learn important ways to be happier. You may even discover the secret to love in those articles, but not here. Poop is gross. Kid poop is less gross (especially when it’s your own kids) but it’s not that much less gross. Poop is poop. You’ve been warned.
On Monday morning, my wife left the house with Emmy, our 9-month-old, to pick up Zach from school and Lucy from art camp. While I’m on hiatus, we take turns taxiing the kids around (okay, she does it way more than I do) so when she left, I took the opportunity to suffer through a brutally hot DVD workout in our garage called Plyometrics. It’s a horrible jumping and squatting routine that should be punishment for murderers but after eating and drinking everything in sight for 9 months, it’s the kind of exercise I need to lose the aging dad gut. I don’t want an aging dad gut – I’m not even 40. (I’m almost 40.)
As fitness monster Tony Horton tortured me via DVD with his “squat-reach-jumps” and “rock star hops”, I felt pretty good about myself as I nearly melted in a hot garage that could easily double as a Native American sweat lodge. I don’t know how hot it has to get to hallucinate, but I saw things. I saw a pasty, oldish looking guy in a six dollar Target door mirror who looked like he ate the college version of me. I jumped and squatted to help vanquish the doughy pig in the mirror and after 58 minutes of the DVD, I prevailed. I made it through Plyometrics without passing out in a puddle of pain. At the end of it all, I felt like a warrior.
I showered, drank a chocolate(ish) health shake and grabbed my iPad to cycle through all of the various social media sites online that seem to both eat and document my life. Why not? After a vicious crushing of a tough workout, I was basically a ninja. I had earned the right to relax.
Outside, I heard the Honda Odyssey pull into our driveway. The familiar peace-shattering sound of 3 kids – or what we affectionately call “The Nickerzoo” – made its way from the minivan to our house. I heard my wife, frustrated and muttering to herself, as she approached the front door. The muttering was interrupted by the tired crying of the 9-month-old, who was slung around her hip like a baby monkey. She flung the diaper bag (which at this point, seems to contain all the contents of the earth) onto the floor of the front hallway. One kid ran past, arms covered in something yellow and sticky and the other’s face looked like she had eaten ice cream out of a firehose.
“She’s gotta go to bed,” my wife said, referring to the baby. Sunglasses still on and clearly sweating from slogging three children around in the 94 degree heat, she whisked past me as I sat on the couch.
“Okay. Need any help?” I offered, lamely.
“No,” I heard her say as she closed the door of the baby’s room.
It was a bogus offer since there wasn’t much I could do, and the tone in her voice seemed to indicate that she’s come to grips with the fact that she’s married to a lummox. The other two kids had already moved outside and were in the process of scattering all of their toys around the yard to apparently prepare our family for a featured spot on A&E’s Toy Hoarders. No problem. I’d tell my wife about my amazing workout when she was done dealing with the baby.
After fifteen minutes, my wife returned wearing a fresh shirt.
“How’d it go?” I asked her.
“Awesome,” she said. I detected sarcasm.
“Not awesome?” I asked cautiously.
“No, it was awesome. I got there late because Zach couldn’t decide whether he wanted the back seat or the middle seat when I picked him up from school. He screamed the whole way to Lucy’s art camp, which of course convinced the baby to scream the whole way to Lucy’s art camp. When we finally got there, Zach took a year to get out of his seat because he wanted to “do it himself.” While he was crawling out, I realized I forgot the baby carrier. I couldn’t put Emmy in the stroller since there’s a million stairs at that place, so I just had to carry her on my hip. Zach was running in the road, so I had to grab him before he got hit by a truck. Halfway to her class, I noticed that something stunk. I looked down and she had crapped her diaper and it had seeped out the back and bottom, all over my shirt. I couldn’t go back because we were already late, so I had to just hold her over the crap stain on my shirt so no one else would see it, even though I’m sure they could smell it. We walked up the million stairs to Lucy’s class and I’m sweating because it’s 900 degrees and I can feel the poop melting down my side. She starts squirming, which spreads hot baby crap all over my shirt and arms. They both want ice cream and they hound me until I give in, so I have to walk down the stairs to the ice cream cart and he gets a gross Spongebob thing that starts melting the second he opens it and it runs all down his arms and face. She gets some Oreo pop that instantly covers her face like a chocolate mask and I still have a baby covered in crap on my hip. We make it back to the car, she’s screaming to be changed, Zach is covered in yellow corn syrup slime and Lucy is whining because I don’t have any water for her. I tried to clean him up but I was out of wipes so I had to use his shirt, Lucy is now crying because she’s “so thirsty,” Emmy stunk the whole way home and my hands were covered with baby poop until ten minutes ago. Awesome.”
I stared at her for a moment.
“I made it through Plyometrics,” I told her.
She laughed, but not the good kind of laugh where you feel like you said something funny. It was that wife laugh that comes right before being committed to an asylum for murdering a dumbass husband.
“I’m going to Menchies to get yogurt,” she said, “see you in a week.”
“Okay,” I said.
She wins this round.
I laughed to the point of tears reading this. Sometimes, the best we can do on days like these is laugh. Also, its nice to know that all parents can relate and we’re not alone!
I’ve been laughing for two days since first reading this. It’s like you’re a fly on the wall in my house, right down to the Tony Horton detail.
LOL. Wow – you are lucky she didn’t punch you right in the face.
I’m crying because I’m laughing so hard. You just summarized my life…. right down to the three, kids, Odyssey and toy hoarders! LOVED it!! Even the best, most helpful husband in the world has moments where they can’t do anything but sit back and let us moms handle it
you did the right thing by not getting in her way. Oh, and my husband has a “garage/shed” that he uses to boost his manliness too 
Sadly this is the story of my life. I hate it when my son gets “blow outs” because instead of my bf helping me he just laughs. But when it happends to him, he wants all the help in the world; “team work?” he says. Difference is, she took it out on you and your gracefuly took the beating lol.
hilarious!!! Tony is the man!! My husband and I are currently subject ourselves to the p90x w/o. I know a mother much like your wife who i linked this to.
brutal!
Now now, don’t let this article scare you all away from getting married and/or having kids. I’m a stay at home mom of a 6 month old boy and yes there are moments you want to pull your hair out, but there are many more moments of laughter and awe of your little ones. I have the most loving husband who really does try to be hands on for the most part, but he does have his moments of not offering to help when he should. However, most moms will tell you that we like to just take care of the “poop” incidents ourselves because we go through it all day and can usually just fix the problem on our own the fastest. What they should do is offer to send us to the spa after wards.
Thanks, Tina. You said what I wanted to say perfectly. I’m not really THIS big of a jackass in real life.
Damn, that was painful to read
Sorry man. Next time, don’t ask anymore, just help. Don’t stare at frustrated angry tired mothers and just stand there, it makes em raging mad. I hope you make up soon :/
Yeah! The poop part wasn’t that bad! Not bad at all!
lmao!! Oh, that’s a good one
I know it’s not funny at the time, as I have similar stories (with only one child, mind you, I’m not completely insane), but they will be eventually. Thank you for the laugh, and the reminder of why I’m not married 
To all of you parents, go get “Motherhood is not for Sissies.” Very apt.
I have laughed that very same laugh before. Any mother who says she hasn’t is a damn liar.
I agree!
I feel her pain (well, one third of it seeing as I have one 2 year old) but I did feel bad that you were feeling so good about yourself and your positive feelings were dashed. That’s married life, I guess, but it’s too bad that the positive feelings aren’t as contagious as the negative.
This story makes me want to never get married. When your family got home, why didn’t you immediately clean up your son and daughter’s face and arms and fix your wife a glass of iced tea? Sheesh!
Ah, stories like this are my birth control.
Moms always seem to have it harder than dads.
When I worked at a daycare, this kid pooped so much it reached his shoulders and down his knees before we could find the source of the smell (all 1 year olds smell like poo, it turns out.)
It was horrifying.
oh man Shane…you just single-handedly postponed child birth for me about 3 more years than previously planned.
Absolutely.
Oh boy. I think all mothers can relate. Some people look down on stay-at-home moms but seriously our job is just as hard (or harder) than anyone else’s.
I loved the part about the “wife laugh that comes right before being committed to an asylum for murdering a dumbass husband” lol.
In my ideal world, that would never happen to me. But because I mentioned my ideal world, that will now happen to me. Knock on wood.
I think that round qualified for triple bonus points.
welp, you’ve just summarized my worst nightmare, i think.