Yesterday, while at Abigail’s soccer practice
something occurred that I know you are all dying to hear about.
If you gag easily, you may not want to read on.
The story’s main characters are Caroline and I.
The main subject matter is dog poop.
It kind of reminded me of what happened
while I was smelling my beautiful summer rose arrangement back in June.
I was just going along,
admiring the beauty and enjoying some relaxation,
and…
Wham.
What do you know?
There are all kind of bugs on the yellow rose’s underside.
Never mind that I had just brought them into the house
and set them on the kitchen counter.
Eek.
Now that I ruined your bliss
as the bugs did mine,
try to move past the bugs for a moment,
and place the amazing smell of this rose in your brain for the duration of this post,
it will serve you well.
I promise
And back to the soccer horrification.
(I love it when I make up words)
This is a true story that will go into my motherhood portfolio
of proudest mommy moments that I survived.
It shall be filed at the top of the grosser than gross section.
Brought to you once again by one of my adorable toddlers.
Imagine this with me for a moment:
I am enjoying my book under a great big shady tree.
Abigail and her soccer team are close by drilling their soccer skills.
I didn’t take my usual walk around the track
as I had just finished gussying myself up for a night on the town.
Two year old Caroline is wandering here and there
and I occasionally have to pause my reading
to eradicate her from her sister’s playing field.
No big deal.
I am totally used to it.
I can even keep a sense of humor
most of the time while
she runs away from me.
When she screams “I want to play with Abba” at the top of her lungs
whenever I get anywhere near her,
I almost think it is kind of cute.
Almost.
Most of all I am secretly thanking God
that we are done with swim lessons
and I won’t have to jump in the pool
and ruin my $200 phone to save her.
I am sure the other parents there were thrilled
with her lung capacity.
Who am I kidding?
There were no other parents there.
Who watches their 12 year old kids practice anymore?
Only mothers who are gluttons for punishment
and I seem to be the only one for miles.
At one point, I notice a pile of dog poop
by the base of the tree.
Not that I am an expert in scat or anything,
but it looked like the 2 week old dry meal
of a German shepherd.
I move a few feet farther away
to the edge of the tree provided shade.
I then lay on my stomach and read on.
Caroline is playing peekaboo around this aforementioned very large tree trunk
and I keep her engaged with an occasional boo
between the words on the page
that was feeling neglected.
I am sure the book itself was thinking,
“What kind of woman takes one hour to read one page?”
Well, I guess Caroline knew that I was stuck between
the literary world and reality
and wasn’t really into her game.
The next thing I know,
I feel something heavy yet soft hit my back.
I look up to see Caroline in “I just threw something” form
and she is smiling from ear from ear.
Her giggle taunts me.
I jump up
only to notice simultaneously that
one – she is holding a piece of dog poop in her left hand
and two – a piece of poop hit the grass right below my feet.
It had obviously rolled down my backside.
Eek.
I kept my cool.
Told her to “drop it.”
Told her again to “drop it.”
After I said yucky ka-ka about thirty times,
and explained to her that it was absolutely undeniably nasty
to play with dog poop,
She finally listened on the third “drop it” try
I then had to locate a stick to putt the
straggling piece of poop back
to its family cluster.
As the responsible mom that I am,
I just had to get it off the sidewalk where she had ran with it.
We wouldn’t want some other kid to come along and step on that, would we?
I gathered Caroline and my book in one swift motion,
making sure not to touch her hands
and went to the car to find some hand sanitizer.
I then buckled her in her car seat
while making a mental note to
attend my next Relief Society meeting
where they are making emergency car kits.
Surely there is hand-sanitizer
in every van of any decent mother.
Or at least in her purse.
How can you be out of both
in such a moment of need?
I obviously have some improvements to make.
This is my desperate plea to the world of mothers,
“Help me, please.”
Remind me to replenish the hand sanitizer
before my next moment of desperation.
Why can’t any of you be at soccer practice when I need you?
I didn’t even realize that I never washed her hands
until just now.
Sometimes blogging is a cruel cruel joke
on a mother’s mind.
When we got home,
I had to run out the door
and daddy was in charge of dinner
I sure hope he remembered
to make sure the kids washed up.
Oh, and back to me.
Yeah, I totally wore the same shirt out last night.
And guess what,
when I attended the Taste of Home cooking exhibition,
I won the best prize they gave away,
and no one was the wiser.
Go here to see the photographic evidence.
(Thanks to Launi for capturing the thrill of the win)
Apparently, I need to wear dog poo out more often.
It must have been my lucky charm.
The moral of the story: don’t stop to smell the roses.
It may give you only great big disappointment.
Ignorance is bliss on certain occasions.
Also, most definitely
move farther than just a few feet away
the next time you
notice dog poop at soccer practice,
even if you are enjoying a good book.
This advice is especially sound
if anywhere in your vicinity
there is a wild
two year old
that just refuses to be wrangled, tamed, or still.
The night Max wore his wolf suit
and made mischief of one kind
and another, and another.
Pretty much one of my favorite books of all time.
Now I could write my own version.
The day Caroline refused to wear her shoes
for the fifteenth millionth time,
and threw dog poop at her mother.
If you can relate to this post in the least,
please share it with your friends,
and help me make some money
so I can buy some hand sanitizer.
The share buttons are right under this sentence.
Sounder by William H. Armstrong
alice w. gold 