Welcome Home. We Pooped.

Last night was the end of my New York Adventure. (More about that later.) I got back to my room at 9:30 and decided I was exhausted and done. Shortly thereafter I found myself at the hotel bar getting to know some seriously awesome fellow bloggers late into the night.

This morning I awoke FAR too early so I could catch a flight back to the Golden State and reality. The sunrise greeted me with several new tweets from my new friends.

@TheBeardedIris: ‪@TCStream sister, so nice to meet you in person and share intimate toileting habits with you. ‪@ninjamomblog ‪@letmestart ‪#classybitches

‏‪@LetMeStart: ‪@TCStream It’s nice to see people not run away when the Poo Chat begins. ‪@NinjaMomBlog ‪@TheBeardedIris

Because I’d joked. I’d said, “Poop talk doesn’t phase me. I have twin toddlers.” Case and point:

I ran upstairs to change my clothes. The act of actually traveling is icky. When I returned to the scene of constantly occurring chaos, Search was sobbing at the baby gate.

I could smell something was afoul.

Search held out his little hands to me. They were dirty. Approximately 3 nanoseconds later I realized it was poop. An additional 5 seconds of investigative tactics led me to the discovery that Search still had a clean diaper.

Crap.

Literally.

And also, where was his brother.

Destroy had procured a paper towel from somewhere among the living room wreckage. He was presently on the couch smearing fecal matter in a circular motion around our white microfiber couch. (The fact that we have a white couch and toddlers is not up for discussion here.)

“Uh oh. I clean,” he announced.

I’d found the culprit.

CODE BROWN! CODE BROWN! OH. MY. GOD. THE POOP! SO. MUCH. POOP.

Poop rising out of his (thankfully already brown) shorts and down his little legs. Brown spots dotted the blue carpet. And the stench was impressive. Even the dogs wouldn’t approach this particular event. And these are animals who eat their own poop.

My fastidious little Search was wailing with the Doppler highs and lows only a distraught toddler pacing the corridor hall can muster. He was not a fan of having his brother’s poop anywhere near his little person.

Both kiddos got scooped up and deposited directly in the bathtub. Code 3. Stat.

Destroy, who has never met a door he could stand to see open, promptly slammed the bathroom door shut before climbing into the tub for me to scrub off ingrained poop flakes. (This is truly how I spent my afternoon.)

The diaper carnage began to emit noxious odors that enveloped the room. I’m pretty sure I could see fumes from the foul emissions swirling, avoiding the fan – which I had on at full blast. I also considered looking for our emergency preparedness gas mask. (We totally have one.)

When the water appeared too murky to actually benefit rather than hinder attempts at cleanliness, I scooped them back out, wrapped them in towels and tried to convince them to remain in the one poop-free section of the living room.

At this point I realized we were out of diapers. “Stay!” I commanded the children, who were happily squiggling in their terrycloth burritos. (I don’t know why I thought this would work. It doesn’t convince the dogs to follow orders either.) I ran for the hills (or, you know, upstairs where there were more diapers).

Upon my return, a naked Search was standing alert dead center in the room amid a soggy puddle. The naked Destroy had scaled his Little Tykes castle. Presumably to take in more of the landscape.

“Brother peed,” declared Destroy.

It’s good to be home. Clearly they missed me.

If you missed me, I’ll be fumigating the living room and decontaminating the couch. Visitors welcome. Bring air freshener.