My house smells like someone has smeared poop all over the place. Someone, in fact, has.
Summer school has begun for Jack, and it seems that this transition, while it is a positive one which he is quite happy about, has triggered the need to Code Brown.
Our approach to the indoor poopapalooza trend is to respond with complete neutrality. Open the door to Jack's grotto to find a stinking, smeared mess? Poker face. Silence.
Strip the bed. Sanitize the floor, walls, and window. Isolate the perp away from the crime scene, thus NOT reinforcing the behavior by allowing him the fun of watching the janitorial response.
It's a nasty job, and it still makes my blood boil when it happens. And yes, it still happens, despite the advice of experts and our best efforts in prevention. But I am fairly certain that the way I respond to the Code Brown says more about my parenting efforts than does my inability to eradicate it.
I live in Poo City, and that is just the way it is. I am weary of talking about futile solutions with experts. I am tired of trying to catch Jack in the act, or just before. I am not loving the barnyard stench which ubiquitously wafts through my house.
Perhaps I am reaching the acceptance phase in the grieving process of having a chronic poo-casso in my life. I am too tired to deny that it's a problem, or to try to bargain with the universe to make it stop, or even to feel perpetual anger that it still happens.
I'm at peace with the smelly veneer of crap in my house. Okay, not really, but I do find solace in the hard-working Kirkland Signature Household cleaning wipes, which really help to get the job done.
And I appreciate my husband, who is my partner in restoration.