I started to clean. I swear that after I picked up one piece of poop, another one would appear. I changed the sheets. I threw everything in the washing machine. I broke out the carpet cleaner. I went through all the motions—like a zombie. My eyes probably looked like I was dead inside. I didn’t lose my cool. I didn’t yell. I didn’t make him feel ashamed. He asked me if I was happy. I told him I was not happy, that I was very sad, that the only place we poop and pee is in the potty or a diaper if he’s wearing one, that he would not be getting a lollipop or cookie because he peed and pooped on the carpet. He seemed to understand and told me he won’t do it again and that then I will be happy.
Now I’m sitting on the couch. Daniel Tiger entertains my little one. We can move on from the incident, but the damage is done, and I’m traumatized. I text a mom friend. I vent, telling her I know I’m a baby. She tells me I’m normal. It’s not like I was cleaning up glitter. It’s pee and poop. That I’m a better person than she is. She would have yelled. Thank goodness for mom friends. The ones who always tell you the truth.
I continue sitting. It feels like hours. My husband should be home soon. My son has taken out every toy in the family room, and it looks like a tornado blew through. All the while I just sit cross-legged on the couch staring into space, totally checked-out. I’m having flashbacks of postpartum depression. Can postpartum depression come back? Even two years after you get better? I should ask my therapist. Maybe I should go back to my therapist.
My husband finally gets home. He handles the mess. He cleans the entire family room—something he knows will make his slightly OCD wife feel better. He has another talk with our son. He kisses me on the head. He takes us out for pizza and wine. By the time we get home, I’m feeling much better. I’m playing with my son, laughing, and the moment has passed.
I realize that this would not be a big deal for some moms—even some moms I know. Again, I’m the mom I am. I won’t apologize for that. When this happened, all I could think about was it becoming my son’s new habit. And I’m thinking, I did not sign up for this! But I did sign up for this. I had a child. I became someone’s mom. This is all part of the package. It’s not going to always be fun and easy. And I’m not always good at hard. And that’s the daily struggle—my struggle. And the struggle is real!
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This post originally appeared at Scary Mommy.