Cool days spent mostly at the park are how I prefer to appropriate my time as a nanny. Watching the tops of trees dance from my perch atop a twice wrapped-over-the-bar swing has a certain je ne sais quoi that is unparalleled. I absolutely derive merit from the plethora of responsibility that comes with caring for wee ones. It's just that out in the wilds of your local playground, magic happens. Our most valuable generation become pirates and princesses, the sand becomes lava, and we call benches "home base". Years of experience have yet to strip the wonder from my eyes as I observe tiny relationships being formed right here, in our world. These are the things I yearn to tell parents. "Don't forget this moment!" Moments I want to dip in bronze and preserve, remembering each minute fondly as I hold it in my hand years from now.
Then there are the moments I want to choke with my bare hands and toss out the car window on a freeway off ramp.
Ladies and Gentleman, gather 'round the campfire. Submitted for the approval of the Mignight Society, I call this story "The Day of Corn-Poo".
It was the beginning of summer 2004 and I was making a decent days wage for an honest days work watching two toddlers as a nanny share. Amy and Ian were both two and a half, adorable, and asleep. Or so I thought. My sister had come over to keep me company while the little ones took their naps and we had just settled in on the couch when I heard the pitter patter of little feet. They were running circles around the bed above us. It was Amy, and she was relegated to an air mattress in Ian's parent's immaculately clean bedroom. Ian was in his room across the hall from Amy and all was quiet. Being patient, I waited for Amy to settle down. I waited for five minutes, then ten. The pitter grew faster, the patter grew louder and I grew impatient. "I think you should put her back in bed." my sister said casually as she flipped channels on the TV. I walked to the stairs and sternly instructed her to "get back in bed" from the landing. The running stopped and I made my way back to the couch. I had just enough time to sigh, and pull a pillow up into my arms when the running picked up full force. Still silent in Ian's room I thought it best to get as close to Amy's door as possible and coax her back to bed. I was hesitant to let her see me because then she would definitely want to bolt out of the bedroom and come out to play. As sweet as that may seem to all you non-nannies and non-parents, it's the actual, tangible recipe for all that is awful. An overtired child plus overtired parents makes for a exasperating evening that usually involves screaming and defiance. I began ascending the stairs with my sister watching me wide eyed, because the running had turned into knocking. Frustrated, my climb became brisk until I was stopped dead three stairs from the landing. The knocking stopped and so did my heart. I slowly turned to face my sister, looking white as a sheet I'm sure. I whispered "Do you smell that?" She shook her head. "It's... poo." I breathed, turning to back to the landing. I took a step, then another, and the knocking stopped. "Muh Muh?" a tiny voice asked from behind the door. No, this wasn't just poo. It was... sour. The closer I inched towards the bedroom door the more enveloped I became in a stench so raw I nearly hurled my Arthur shaped Mac & Cheese. I didn't want to look. I wanted my sister to come with me. I called down to her and asked her as such. She turned the tv up. I waited a few seconds before grasping the door knob. I waited a few more before turning it. I had a suspicion I was about to encounter a scene the might involve fecal matter running down the leg of a toddler. This is about as bad as most nannies and parents think it gets. Let me assure you, young grasshoppers, it is not. I closed my eyes, turned the knob, and gently pushed the door open.
At first all I saw was sweet little Amy. She was standing at the foot of her air mattress bating her long lashes at me and tugging at her shirt. I felt relieved when I saw that she didn't have anything suspicious on her legs. But then I noticed that she wasn't wearing a diaper. Where the fuck was it? My eyes darted around the room trying to find it, hoping it hadn't landed buttered side down on the white carpet. That's when I heard Amy say "Eat it. Corn?" It was as if those were the magic words to kick my brain in its ass and jump start it. There was shit everywhere. There were shitty foot prints around her mattress and Ian's parent's bed like some kind of horrific yellow brick road. There was shit in her hair, there was shit on the full length mirror. Are you fucking KIDDING ME?! For a split second I thought this might have been an appropriate enough situation to call 911. "Katie. Katie. Katie. KATIE KATIE KATIE KATIE!" I started screaming as I turned and rigidly stumbled to the landing. "What? What's wrong?!" my sister asked as she started making her way up the stairs. At the same time the smell hit her, she saw my face and heard me mutter "I think I need help...". She grabbed her mouth gagging, turned and walked down the stairs. "Ok. Ok. Ok. Ok." I repeated to myself as I blankly reached into the upstairs bathroom and grabbed a towel. I took a deep breath and ran back to Amy, scooping her up in the towel and bringing her into the shower. I stripped her down, rolled up my sleeves and pant legs, and turned on the water. I washed her off twice for good measure, all the while she's watching my face and laughing. To her this was a game. To me it was hell. I brought her downstairs to Katie so she could dress her in her spare clothing. I grabbed bleach to clean the shower, and every other bottle of chemical cleaner I could find for the bedroom. I wrapped a kitchen towel around my mouth and held it in place with a stretchy headband. Making my way back into that living nightmare of a room, I noticed all the little yellow dots adorning everything. Amy had recently eaten corn. A lot of corn. Forty five minutes had passed before I, with sweat dripping into my eyes, finished disinfecting.
I heard Amy laughing at the TV while I turned the shower back on so that I could scour myself. I had just stepped into that warm salvation when I heard the knocking. This time it was coming from Ian's room and I wanted to die. I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped into the hallway. I saw my sister looking up the stairs at Ian's door. She was thinking what I was thinking, and she was just fine staying where she was. Like ripping off a band aid that I already knew was going to hurt, I flung Ian's door open and saw him run back to his bed and jump in. I checked the carpet first. Nothing. Curtains, nothing. Back of the door, nothing. I stepped into the room smiling a smile of a thousand joys as I started to ask Ian if he had had a good nap. "Did you have a go-" poo. Poooooooooooo. Like a zombie with the urgent hunger for sweet, delicious brains, I began feverishly hunting turds. Slack jawed and exhausted I gurgled "poo" as I shambled from the window to the bed. Ian was turned to the wall on his bed now, being incredibly quiet. I realized then that it was because he was busy. Busy painting. On the wall. With shit. "Poo!" I screamed, almost excited. I had zeroed in on it and it was my mission to quarantine it before it spread any further. I quickly ran back to the bathroom, put on my shit clothes, and my shit socks, and my shit shoes, and ran back into Ian's room like a Shitbuster. If there's something strange in your child's diaper, who ya gonna call? A nanny. I scooped up a laughing Ian. Unfortunately, that was when I had found the missing carpet doody. With my foot. I turned and ran leaving skid-marks in my wake. I had his clothes off and the water running within seconds. Up went the sleeves, out came the soap. Wash, rinse, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I wrapped him in a towel, deposited him with my sister downstairs, grabbed the cleaning supplies again, jolted back up the stairs and started with the carpet around his bed. I was getting fucking good at this! Corn. So much corn. There was even corn poo on a What To Expect: The Toddler Years book that was on his rocking chair. By the way, nowhere in there does it give advice on cleaning up corny shit. Thirty minutes later (I beat my personal best time) I was back in the bathroom. I had earned this shower and for shit's sake I was going to enjoy it.
I don't want this moment in bronze. But I wouldn't mind it in plaster on a shelf somewhere behind all those bronzed memories. It wasn't a moment of wonder and awe at the precocious nature of children, but more so a testament to what I was capable of enduring. That afternoon taught me that there are things worse than what I perceive to be the worst. I would have been MUCH happier with one room filled to capacity with corn shit as opposed to two. I learned that Oxyclean rules an Resolve drools. Most importantly that it's the plaster moments, bronze moments, and all those in between that compile the repertoire of Nanny-hood. So often I think about the day of corn-poo when I feel that my day is going south. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has come close. Wait, I forgot one more lesson I learned that day. I would sooner staple all my fingers together than ever feed corn to a kid before they were potty trained.
To Amy and Ian, who will hopefully never read this because it's disgusting, I do not hold that horrible day against you. You are still the sweet, adorable children I loved, covered in poo or otherwise. Thank you sincerely for this plaster moment.
