Kids ruin furniture and carpet. It’s a fact. If my kids are not crapping their pants on my sofa, they are coloring on my carpet. To keep them from destroying things, I have made some really crazy decisions.
Parenting makes you crazy. Below is the evidence.
Attention: This post mostly consists of short anecdotes where bodily fluid is the protagonist. If you are squeemish, or you don’t have kids, consider yourself warned.
Pointed a puking child’s face at my chest: When Tristan (my first child) was one year old he came down with this horrible puke virus that lasted a week. Until I had a child, I had no idea that a one-year-old could propel puke at a distance twice their own height. I must have cleaned the carpet a dozen times in three days. Eventually I got to where I could see it coming, and once Tristan made the puke face, I pointed his mouth at my chest, and let it happen. Now let me just make this clear, I made a conscious decision to allow someone to puke on me because changing my clothing and taking a shower seemed easier than cleaning the carpet or sofa.
Thrown a potty training child with crossed legs onto my lap: Once I was sitting on the sofa, and Norah, who was three years old, crossed her legs, place her hands on her crotch, and started to cry. She was potty training at the time. Last time she did this, she wet her pants and got pee all over the carpet. I grabbed her, and placed her on my lap. I don’t think I need to tell you the rest of the story, but what I will say is that taking a shower and doing laundry was much easier than cleaning the carpet.
Banned Silly Putty: After finding Silly Putty wedged between the cushions of my sofa, it became banned in my house.
Placed a potty training child pinching his butt cheeks into the kitchen sink: During Tristan’s first week of wearing “big kid underwear” I found him in the living room with his right hand pinching his butt. He was in shorts, and I wasn’t sure if they would hold whatever he was struggling with, so I lifted him up, ran into the kitchen because it was closer than the bathroom, placed him in the sink, and watched him grunt and then smile.
Tackled a three year old with dog poop on his shoes: When Tristan was three, we lived at a small house in Provo, Utah. He and I were playing in the yard, and I watched him step in dog poop just outside the kitchen door, and then go running inside. I chased him down, and just before he made it from the kitchen tile to the living room carpet, I tried to reach out and grab him, but ended up falling on top of him. He cried. I got dog poop on my shirt. Then I gagged.
Spent over an hour cleaning marker off a chair: Once Norah drew all over one of our living room chairs. I got it out, but it took hours of elbow grease and about a million swears.
Wrapped a baby with a blow out in my shirt: In our house, we call a blow out a “code brown.” When Norah was a baby, I was holding her while sitting in our easy chair (the only nice piece of furniture we owned). She was in nothing but a diaper. She had a code brown on my lap. I smelled it before I saw it, so I lifted her up, and noticed something flowing down her leg. To keep it from getting on the chair, I hugged her to me. Then I pulled the bottom of my shirt over her, and carried her into the bathroom.
Used my bare hands to lift a turd off the floor: One day I was walking through my living room and noticed a turd on the floor. Tristan was potty training, and I had to assume he had an accident. We didn’t have a dog or anything. I knew it wasn’t me, and I didn’t feel right about blaming my wife. I didn’t know how long it had been there, but what I do know is that I was filled with a mix of emotions. Anger that it had happened. Fear that it would stain the carpet. Anxiety about cleaning it up. All of this clouded my judgment, and caused me to reach in with no cover, grab the turd, and carry it into the bathroom. Not my proudest moment.
What are some of the crazy things you’ve done to save your furniture or carpet?
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Clint Edwards was blessed with a charming and spitfire wife, a video game obsessed little boy, and a snarky little girl in a Cinderella play dress. When Clint was 9-years-old his father left. With no example of fatherhood, he had to learn how to be a father and husband through trial and error. His essays on parenting and marriage have been featured in New York Times Motherlode, Huffington Post Parents, Huffington Post Weddings, and The Good Men Project. He lives in Oregon. Follow him on Facebook and Twitter.
Photo by Lucinda Higley