This past weekend we were lucky enough to have the kind of weather a Bahamian would be jealous of. It was 75 degrees and sunny and we spent the entire time lounging by the pool and on the beach in Malibu. It was heaven and when you are treated so well and pampered so luxuriously you think everything will be perfect the entire time. Then you remember that you have brought your toddler with you and your best friends also have their kids and this magical, musical experience could change at any given moment from perfect to pure chaos. But of course, that’s what makes parenting rewarding, right?
We arrived on Saturday morning with a skip in our step and ready to do nothing. We swam, we ate a beautiful meal, we didn’t have to lift a finger except to wipe Desatin on Otto’s rump and we lounged and played with crazy groups of delicious kids. After a long hike on the beach with the whole gang and lots of rock throwing and sand eating, Otto decided that taking two poops in two minutes with only one diaper would be great fun. We improvised and laughed at our very regular, very bountiful shit machine. When the sun started to set, we all made our way back to the house; fed the kids dinner and I insisted that we have the huge bath party.
My favorite new thing to do is have bath dates with friends and their kids. We have the kids play like crazy until dinner, feed them as much food as they can stuff in their bellies, bath them all together, put them in their P.J.’s and then toss them in the car with a bottle. They pass out cold when their head hit the pillow and you can enjoy your evening with a little booze, American Idol and some lovey, dovey, dirty time with daddy.
So, we had three of the five kids in the bath together at this point, our friend Francois's daughters Charlie, 4 and Roxy 18 months and little Otto Cohen, who was the only boy and super happy about it, as any boy would be. The room Otto was staying in was built especially for children with a small, custom bathtub and two twin beds so it felt child friendly, even though it was attached to our room and was easily nicer than any hotel I have ever stayed at. It is the kind of place that hammers home the fact that you will never, ever make it in life, ever. So just stop trying.
After cleaning up the kids, Francois, took Roxy and Otto out of the tub while I finished bathing Charlie. Dave and Francois were now in the bedroom letting the little kids run around and dry off. As I drained the tub and tried to convince Charlie that yes, her vagina was indeed clean enough after several minutes of hydration and to give me back the shower wand before her hoo-ha turned into a shriveled up prune before its time, I heard shrieks of laughter from the other room.
I ran out to find my husband and Francois laughing as hard as I have ever seen them laugh. Harder than the time we all did Ecstasy in the mountains and ran into a cast member from Kids In The Hall who was a dick to me while I was freaking out and wearing awful orange corduroys. Harder than the time we drank too much tequila and made naked grilled cheese sandwiches. Harder than the time our friend Stan pulled his balls out of his shorts at Jack’s wedding and put them in a cocktail glass next to Francois’s, trying to recreate a double Manhattan. Harder than the time our friend Sam fell down a ravine in Hawaii with fried chicken in his back pack at the same wedding, while Francois was wearing $15 trendy Puma’s while attempting to hike a treacherous mountain and almost dying from hip, fabulous fashion sense.
What made them laugh harder was a photo that Dave had accidentally taken a minute earlier. Dave had been snapping pictures of Otto and Roxy running around the crib chasing each other and laughing. Suddenly and without warning, as is always the case, Roxy took a shit on the rug at the exact moment Dave was shooting. Subsequently, we now have a collection of stills of a small child in pre-poop, mid-poop and post-poop landing on rug that could easily be worth more than everything we collectively own and rent.
As we were all howling at the photos and the fact that the perfect poopy left no mark, Otto was busy a few feet away emptying his bowels onto the floor with a torrent of diarrhea reserved for Ex-Lax addicts and sick cattle. This was his third bowel movement in an hour so the surprise was obvious and stunning. We only noticed Otto’s art project after he began crying because he had stepped in his own crap and was furious that liquid waste was stuck between his cute, little toes. I grabbed him and flew into the bathroom, putting him the tub again and washing away all the evidence.
Unfortunately, his fecal foot caught the edge of the bedspread while I was running and smeared it with the mark of the beast. Dave quickly cleaned up the whole mess but the bedspread was too tough to shout it out. The housekeeper, who was as wonderful and gracious as she could be, assured us that we would not need to sell a kidney to replace the fabric. It had been Scotch Guarded and the stain, the smell and the shame would come out in the wash.
Needless to say, we all looked and felt like we had been hit by a shit-filled dump truck while our small, precious manure Malibu Barbie and Ken were none the wiser. I still cannot get over the mathematically chances of not only having two toddlers lay waste on really expensive surfaces within moments of each other but that Dave accidentally caught on film for us to really, truly enjoy and to torture our children with for years to come.
I should definitely buy a lottery ticket today, not only to help pay for replacing the solid gold bed cover in case the stain does not come out and because I am feeling lucky. Really, really lucky. I mean, seriously. What are the chances?