Don’t talk to me when I’m dealing with poop

Lunch has been eaten by all. The older two have adjourned to the back yard and the new one has grown tired of her chair.
I’m hoisting her out, one hand grasps under an arm while the other slides under the bum and finds slime. “Darn it,” I’m thinking, “She must have spit a lot and it’s dribbled into the bottom of her seat.” I reposition her to get a look at the damage, leaning her against my body in the process.

It’s poo.

Her poop has smelled particularly manure like lately, still I failed to notice she was slick with it until I’d smeared it all over my abdomen.
The stress in my voice didn’t process with Zizza and Enzo when I admonished them to stay out side and play for a bit. They followed me up stairs and bore the brunt of my poo covered grumpiness.
I should have mentioned the poo to Zizza before I fled up the stairs. If she’d known, she would have understood.
I had a parenting triumph the other day when she came to talk to me as I was changing Enz. Once he saw what I was doing, she stopped her address and muttered under her breath “Don’t talk to Mama when she’s dealing with poop” What a valuable lesson for a young child to learn. I had to repeat that phrase about a bajillion times, (once or twice per poopy change since she’s had younger siblings) but she finally got it!
Today, once she realized it was a poop situation I was dealing with, she decided to get a head start on her quiet time and headed off to her room.
Now, If only I can get Enz to understand as well I’ll be all set.

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