Writing Goofy Shit

This past Sunday I kept my granddaughter while her mom was out of town. She’s a well-behaved child of 2 and is no trouble to watch – she does what she’s told, eats her meals with no fuss and is actually fun to be around, especially now that she’s able to talk a little. I envisioned a relaxing day where I kept her entertained and fed her, with an occasional Spongebob break so I could get a few things done. Television, the electronic babysitter for millions of parents and grandparents.

Speaking of Spongebob, I found it just a bit creepy that Aryanna, a very young little girl, homed in on the Spongebob theme music and ran for the television as soon as the show came on. Do they test these cartoons’ music on small children to figure out what makes them react? Two years old, mind you… but already has Spongebob imbued in her consciousness. And that’s the only show she responds to in that fashion. I guess the Marketing Department at Nickelodeon really earns their pay if they can snare someone who’s barely potty trained.

Potty-trained… this is a good thing since it means far fewer absolutely disgusting diapers to change. It does help if the kid is able to tell you in advance that they need to “go.” Ary was very good about this, so we merrily made our way to the bathroom several times that morning. It soon became apparent, however, that Ary’s gastrointestinal tract was having a major malfunction, as those few trips soon became 6, 7, 8, 9 and on up into the double digits.

Even worse is the fact my house is an older one built around 1910, with only one bath as was common back then in homes of that size… and it’s upstairs. Even on a normal day I find it hard to navigate the stairs when my various aches and pains are flaring up. By about noon Sunday, I was ready to just plop the kid in the sink to do her thing.

Bathroom Trip #28 turned out to be the topper. Ary tapped me urgently on the knee exclaiming she had to poo. The poor child was literally squirming, not wanting to have an accident. To save valuable time, I picked her up and ran (well, walked as quickly as I could) up the steps, pulled down her pants and pullups, and picked her up to sit her on the toilet. I didn’t move quickly enough.

I’ll spare you the horrendous details but it went everywhere. With my typical cat-like reflexes (if the cat were dead) I shifted Ary to the tub and hosed her down. Once she was clean and dry she announced she again had to go. So, back on the pot.

This time it turned out to be a false alarm as she merely ripped off a series of man-sized farts. What made it funny was how she would break wind, laugh, purse her lips and go “Pffffffffffft” and then laugh again. After a few minutes of hilarity, she suddenly belched and then proceeded to lose her breakfast all over the bathroom floor, and herself as well. I returned her to the tub for another hosedown.

Oddly enough she didn’t behave as if she felt bad – after getting clean clothes on her I took her back downstairs, where she resumed watching Spongebob as if absolutely nothing had happened. Later in the day she ate again and made a few more trips upstairs, but there was no encore of the earlier massive explosion. Whatever her ailment, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Her mom told me later that Ary’s molars are coming in, so I am guessing this was a contributing factor to her gastric woes. To the kid’s credit, she never cried or fussed. One amusing side note is that by about the time of the 14th or so bathroom break, she quit asking to go and just tapped me on the leg and pointed wordlessly upstairs, like she was using a secret hand signal.

The remainder of the afternoon was uneventful. Ary napped, woke up, helped me finish off some leftover hot dogs and chili and then went home with her grandma for the night. Me, I had to tend to emergency laundry detail in order to wash bath sets, clothes and towels. For the rest of the evening I played on Google+, tended to some business emails and otherwise noodled around on the Internet.

The next time I keep her I’ll be better prepared for disasters like Sunday’s… if need be I’ll just hold her over the cats’ litter box, which isn’t located up a flight of stairs. And hopefully it won’t already be occupied by one of the felines that roam the premises.