The Fart That Ruined Our Snow Day

The Fart That Ruined Our Snow Day

Yesterday was a snow day, which meant the kids got an extra day to continue their work of slowly destroying everything of value we own. My 11-year-old, Owen, spent the majority of the day knocking over picture frames and other breakables while immersed in an epic Nerf gun battle with his friends. My three-year-old, Gwen, spent the morning putting stickers on the fireplace. This reminded me of a task that I’d been ignoring for far too long: removing the stickers from the car window. Every time we go to the doctor’s office, Gwen gets a sticker. She plays with the sticker for a few minutes. But by the time we get home, the sticker is on the window. We’ve been to the doctor’s office a few times this year …

I asked Facebook for advice on how to remove the stickers. Most people told me to use a product called Goo Gone; others suggested a combination of soap and vinegar. One person suggested peanut butter. I tried everything but the Goo Gone and peanut butter. I spend 30 minutes with a razor and various cleaning products trying to remove the stickers. Nothing worked. So I decided to quit and went inside to order some Goo Gone on Amazon.

The rest of our snow day was OK. We watched a movie. We played outside. Gwen had hot cocoa with the neighborhood kids. We ate pizza for dinner. Then came the after-dinner rush of cleaning up and preparing for the next day.

We had just begun our routine when a single, wet fart brought our night to a screeching halt. I knew as soon as I saw the look on Gwen’s face that this was no ordinary fart. She knew it too. And before I could stop her, she had stuck her hands down her pants to confirm it.

The rest happens in a span of seconds.

I fly across the room, grab Gwen by the waist and take off to the bathroom. I’m holding her as far away from my body as possible so I don’t get poop on me. Meanwhile, I’m focusing so hard on her hands, which are now starting to drip, I trip on the rug in front of the sink. We both go down. I land hard on my knees. Gwen, thankfully, lands on her feet, but falls back on me with her shit-covered hands.

Gwen pretending to be Santa Claus in the bath.

You can imagine how the remainder of the night went. There were lots of tears. Some were even from Gwen. There were three loads of laundry—one for the towels, one for the rugs, and one for the shit-stained clothes—and a couple rounds of Swiffering.

Finally, we were back to our regular routine. For Gwen that means: one bath, two books, two trips to the bathroom, three drinks of water, five rounds of good-nights, six adjustments to the positioning of pillows and stuffed animals (each animal must be lined up along her footboard just so—she is truly her mother’s daughter), and finally, mercifully, sleep.

I know we’re supposed to treasure these years when they’re so young, innocent and cute. I also know from experience that the old cliche is true: Time goes by lightening fast. Before I know it, Gwen will be asking for the car keys and telling me she hates me in the same breath. But on snow days like yesterday, it feels like time slows down. It feels like I’m trying to run barefoot in mud, and all I want is for her to be 6 or 7 already, or whatever age you have the common sense to know not to put your damn hand down your pants when your underwear is filled with shit. I think that would be really nice.

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