The Night the Tub Betrayed Me

I should’ve known the moment the giggles turned into that suspicious, velvety silence — the kind of silence that isn’t peace, but plot development. Dan’s on duty, the boys are contained, and I’m three bowls deep into chicken noodle soup like a woman who has earned her sodium. The bath bombs are fizzing, the heater is humming, and for one fleeting moment I believe in gentle evenings.

Then the heater stops.

Not clicks off. Not overheats. Just… dies. Like even it sensed what was coming and said, “Nope. I’m out.”

I walk in, already annoyed, already prepared to lecture an appliance, when Jack — sweet, honest, chaos‑reporting Jack — looks me dead in the soul and says:

“Mom, there’s poop in the tub.”

I freeze.

The world tilts.

The bath bombs stop fizzing out of respect.

“Pardon?” I whisper, as if maybe I misheard. As if maybe he said “soup in the tub,” which would still be weird but survivable.

But no.

No no no.

Jack launches himself out of the tub like a salmon escaping a bear, water everywhere, and I see it.

The floating bomb.

And then — oh yes — the two sunken treasures resting at James’s feet like offerings to the underworld.

“WHO POOPED?” I demand, as if there’s a third suspect hiding behind the shower curtain.

James, cherub of mischief, looks me in the eye and says:

“YOU POOPED, MOMMY.”

I beg your finest pardon.

Sir, I have never once in my life blacked out and deposited a surprise in a bathtub, but thank you for the accusation.

Now I’m in full triage mode.

“Jack, stop touching things.

James, stop giggling.

Someone pull the plug.

DON’T TOUCH THE POOP.

WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING THE POOP.”

The water drains.

The boys helpfully swish the poop toward the drain like they’re conducting a Viking funeral.

I’m scrubbing children.

I’m scrubbing toys.

I’m scrubbing the tub.

I’m scrubbing my soul.

It’s like brushing your teeth while eating an Oreo — every wipe reveals a new horror.

And just when I think I’ve regained control, both boys wander back in, sticky popsicles in hand, and immediately place those popsicle‑coated paws on the Clorox wipes, the counter, the towels, the universe.

“STOP TOUCHING THINGS,” I cry, waving my arms like a woman trying to land a plane with no training.

They laugh.

They leave.

They eat their popsicles.

They are clean.

They are happy.

And I am standing in a bathroom that looks like a crime scene the detectives gave up on.

This’ll be the end of me.

Tell my story.

_______________________

As Told by James, Age 3

So Mommy says it’s bath time, which is fine because I like water and I like chaos and I like when Jack screams like a pterodactyl. She puts in the bath bombs — one for me, one for Jack — and they fizz like magic rocks. I decide this is my kingdom now.

Mommy leaves the door open a little bit so she can “listen.” I don’t know what that means. She’s eating soup. She eats soup a lot. I think she’s training for something.

Jack is splashing. I am splashing. The heater is humming. Everything is perfect.

And then…

I feel it.

A rumble in my tummy.

A prophecy.

I look at Jack.

Jack looks at me.

The bath bomb fizzing slows down like it knows what’s coming.

And then I do it.

I release… The Poop.

A perfect little brown submarine rises to the surface like it’s greeting the sun. Two more follow it, sinking to the bottom like treasure. I am proud. I am powerful. I am Poseidon.

Jack screams, “MOM THERE’S POOP IN THE TUB.”

He jumps out like a dolphin escaping SeaWorld. Water everywhere. Mommy appears in the doorway like she teleported.

She looks at me.

She looks at the poop.

She looks at me again.

“WHO POOPED?” she demands.

I know the rules of war.

I know how to survive interrogation.

So I say, “YOU POOPED, MOMMY.”

She does not like this answer.

She starts yelling things like “STOP TOUCHING EVERYTHING” and “PULL THE PLUG” and “WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING THE POOP.” Jack is yelling “THERE’S THREE PIECES” like he’s narrating a documentary.

The water drains.

The poop swirls.

I help it go faster because I am helpful.

Mommy scrubs us like we’re potatoes she’s prepping for dinner. Then she kicks us out so she can clean the tub and the toys and the towels and probably her soul.

So naturally, Jack and I come back in with popsicles.

We touch the chemicals.

We touch the counter.

We touch everything.

Mommy waves her arms like a bird trying to take flight.

She says, “STOP TOUCHING THINGS.”

We laugh because she is funny when she panics.

Then we go back to the playroom, clean and sticky and happy.

Mommy stays in the bathroom, whispering to herself like she’s seen too much.

I don’t know why she’s upset.

I had a great time.