The Stuff of Nightmares

Allow me to tell you the sordid tale of editing these photos. Let me warn you… it is not for the weak of heart.

It all started out innocently enough; the girls decided they wanted to play outside for a while, and I snapped a few shots of their sweet little oreo-covered faces while they got ready. (I asked them if there was a horse in my lens, and as it turns out, there are two; a white one, and a blue one. No wonder Olivia looks so intense here.)

Eventually, play time turned to nap time and first Jackson and then later Olivia were tucked into their beds for naps. I started the laundry, popped a T-disc in my Tassimo machine while tidying the kitchen a bit, settled Nicole in for some quiet time. I sat down at the table with my coffee and my laptop and started editing. And here, my friends… here we come upon my cardinal error. I relaxed and let my guard down.

I became immersed in layers and highlights and sharpening. I finished my two favourite pictures of Olivia and uploaded them to facebook. As I was about to open more pictures, something unpleasant began permeating my fog of relaxation. I wrinkled my nose a bit, thinking Nicole had farted a few feet away. Then I stopped and sat up straight, inhaling the unpleasant aroma a little more deeply. That wasn’t a fart smell… that was a poop smell. I felt a slow creeping sense of dread, and right then, Olivia piped up from her room down the hall, “Mommy… I pooooooooped.”

Immediately I recognized that there was no possible way that a poop safely tucked away in a diaper in a closed room down the hall would smell so strong.  I buried my face in my hands and took a moment to revel in the joys of motherhood. Then I steeled myself and opened the door to the most horrific thing I have ever seen (all day so far.)

I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say she had decided to try and change herself – thankfully containing the mess to the change table – before opting to call for help. It was one of those situations where you just turn around, start the tub, and then come back and hold your dearest darling child at arms’ length and dump them in the tub, shirt and all, then start dumping water on them while the tub is draining. Wincing but bravely facing the overabundance of fecal matter, I bravely washed down my little monster, who was just excited to be in water. Disgusting poo-water, but water.

Suddenly, she makes a disgusted noise and points, then loudly squeals, “Eeeeeeuuuuuwwww!”

As a little hairball of postpartum-shedding mommyhair floats by.

 

And that, my friends, is the horrifying, disgusting story …
… of how gross my shedding hair is.