The room is quiet.

A soft breeze hums through the air conditioner. Pookie naps atop Mount Laundry Basket. Jack is occupied, probably inventing new laws of physics with Legos. And me? I have entered a forbidden realm—a moment alone.

I settle onto the couch like Cleopatra on her velvet throne, cradling my phone for a brief session of thumb-led doom scrolling. Headlines, memes, someone’s quinoa salad. My mind begins to float.

Then—

The pitter patter.

The familiar sound of toddler feet scampering toward the porcelain palace. A victory march, really. I smile. He’s independent now. Potty-trained-ish. His usual ritual: business, locate Mom, demand shorts like he’s at a Michelin-starred bathroom service.

But this time… something shifts.

“Mommy, I pooped!” he calls.

Routine. Normal. Sweet manipulation (code for “I want a popsicle”).

I wait for the soft thuds of his return. They do not come.

Instead, the voice again—this time charged with urgency. The tone of toddler doom.

“Mommy… I pooooooped!”

I rise. The air shifts. My bare feet hit the floor, absorbing vibrations of chaos. I round the hallway. And then—

The scent hits before the visuals do: a thick, earthy cloud of betrayal. I squint. My pupils dilate with dread.

And there he is. My tiny Picasso. Standing in wild-eyed panic.

One poop-smeared ankle shimmering like cursed treasure.

Brown streaks glinting under the glow of a Dollar Tree nightlight.

Pookie is in the doorway, horrified. She’s already composing a Yelp review.

I gasp.

Then I look around.

Poop is EVERYWHERE.

Except… the toilet. Oh, the irony.

It’s on the walls like a primitive mural.

On the stool—a throne defiled.

There’s a smudge on the bath toy submarine. A trail on the floor like Hansel’s breadcrumbs to hell.

He didn’t just relieve himself. He declared WAR.

I grab him like a hazmat specialist snatching biohazard material. Into the tub. Pants peeled. Toilet seat condemned.

We fight. Not with fists, but plumbing.

He insists on water from the sprocket. I demand handheld spray. He turns it off mid-cleanse like a fevered dictator of bathroom policy. I roar. He giggles. Water splashes. Germs tango.

Finally, settled. Clean-ish. He sits, naked royalty in his bath, plotting his next chaotic masterpiece.

I turn to the battlefield.

A Clorox wipe in one hand. A sense of despair in the other.

I scrub. I mutter threats. I cleanse like a woman possessed.

And then, as I approach the toilet—there it is.

One perfect poop print.

Centered on the seat like an artist’s signature.

I pause.

Will he ask for a treat?

Will he smile with pride?

Will this be another day where parenting feels like survival wrapped in love and Lysol?

Probably.

————————————

With battlefield scrubbed and toddler sanitized, I escaped. A sacred pilgrimage to my closet, to choose a shirt—a clean shirt—a symbol of rebirth and forgotten chaos.

I donned it like armor.
I inhaled deeply.
I felt renewed.
I whispered, “We made it.”

And then I was found.

He approached, eyes wide, nose glistening with the beginnings of mucus despair.
“Mommy… shirt.”

Before I could ask why—he ran his face into me and wiped his little runny nose. A comet of goo sprawled across my once clean shirt.
And then he reverse plopped right in my lap.
Right there. On me. Full toddler squat. No warning. No care.

My shirt: now a tissue.
My lap: a jungle gym.
My soul: floating somewhere between defeat and dark comedy.

Until the next poop fiasco.