Last Monday, I attacked the kids’ bathroom with a spray bottle of bleach. I cleaned the countertop and the toilet. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floor. I wiped down the light switch and the faucet.
It looked clean. It smelled clean. It was clean.
And I felt like Super Mom.
Then, just three days later, I had to give up my cape. Because that bathroom reeked of urine. Already.
I tried to envision all the things that Anthony could have done because, let’s face it, blame for this had to fall on the 4-year-old.
Did he pee in the trash can?
Nope. That wasn’t the source of the smell.
Had he peed on the floor?
Nope. That didn’t seem to be it either.
Could it have been the dog?
And then, I walked in on Ant in the bathroom. And I saw a stream of urine rising above the toilet instead of going down into it.
There he stood, pointing his penis up in the air as pee bounced off the back of the toilet seat, sprayed behind the toilet and basically went everywhere but the bowl.
I stood silent for a second before launching into a tirade that left the little man in tears.
I don’t know that anything could have prepared me for raising a boy.
By the way, guess which room I’ll be cleaning again today.