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Grey Matters

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    I'm the mother of one child; a 3 year old genius of a boy, Greyson. I'm probably a little biased because he's mine, but recognizing sight words, counting to 20, knowing his letters and letter sounds, his screaming jibberish questions along with Jeopardy contestants and yelling letters with the ones on Wheel of Fortune, I'd say he isn't doing too shabby. Being his mother has also intensified my desire to have zero more children. As much as I absolutely adore him, I can't imagine myself with 2 of him (or pregnant EVER AGAIN IN LIFE). Lawrdt, NO.


    So let's get to the meat and potatoes of this tale, shall we? When my then-off-again-boyfriend-now-husband and I picked this house, we were excited about the number of bathrooms. Seemed like a great idea. Well, that was 6 years before Grey. I’d also like to take back any fuzzy feelings I had about our open concept downstairs. *insert all the side eyes* Three years into motherhood, I've been forced to rethink all of the pluses regarding my home, down to the dishwasher and water and ice dispensing refrigerator.


    It was a run of the mill afternoon when it happened. We'd just finished our afternoon snack and adventures in potty training were swell. No accidents, no false starts (peeing a little THEN telling me he needs to pee). Grey informed me that he needed to use the bathroom upstairs. That typically means he has to poop. For some strange reason, he reserves solids for a specific toilet…who knows? I happily obliged. We trodded on upstairs and this was when I had the bright idea to relieve myself in another bathroom a few feet away while he handled business. I scoped the surrounding area for any potential hazards, saw none, and bid him farewell for the couple minutes it would take to pee and wash/dry my hands. Two birds, one “flicted” azz stone. I didn't hear anything out of the ordinary. I learned that day that real G's move in silence like gnomes gnawing lasagna and sipping champagne. I remember proudly thinking, “He’s really growing up!” I was excited about the prospect of no longer having to sit tubside whilst he craps because, MAN. As my husband would say, He can “knock a buzzard off a shit wagon.”


    I proudly walk into the bathroom that my son was occupying. All I see is red. Literally. RED. All over the floor, all over his chin and mouth, on his lap, dripping down the toilet. My first instinct was panic, first thought, “WE'VE GOT A BLEEDER!” Grey was vomiting blood! But before I could fix my feet to start running around like Martin's momma when Gina lost her bird, I took a deep breath. Da hell??? Not the thick scent of blood and bile…soap. Manly, sexy, soapy goodness. On the side of the tub? Axe Shower Gel. Emptied. My darling 3 year old had tasted body wash followed by squirting it all over himself. I thought of Buffalo Bill and his lotion in “The Silence of the Lambs”…it rubs the body wash in its skin or else it gets the hose again. Ha! My assumption is it tasted so terrible, he got frustrated and decided to treat it like a bottle of bubbly, popping the cork on funk everywhere. Being the borderline hovering mom that I am (I'm getting better as he gets older), I instantly rinsed him clean and brushed his soapy teeth (which is why there are no pics of him covered in Axe). I made him drink copious amounts of water as I cleaned the red gel from the floor, toilet, and tub. (Note to any special effects people out there: Axe shower gel is pretty believable as blood with a little ingenuity) Luckily, my son was fine and the only lingering effects of his experience were incessant soap belches and smelling like a pre-teen heading to his first school dance. Suffice it to say, toddlers give no zamns and his older brother is banned from using red body wash ever again in our house. Just kidding. Maybe.



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