It started out much like any other day. I woke up the older two girls, fed them breakfast, got them ready for school. The baby was suspiciously quiet.
In my naivite, I thought that she was just sleeping in a little. After all, she’d gone to bed a little later the night before, so it made sense. At least, I tried to convince myself that it made sense.
The clock struck 7:45. We had exactly ten minutes before we left for school. I could put it off no longer.
A cold feeling of dread crept into my bones as I slowly ascended the stairs. My heart lurched into my throat as I crossed the threshold to the playroom floor. Step by perilous step, I inched my way to the bedroom. With sweat-slippery hands I grasped the doorknob, then stopped. I pressed my ear to the door, searching for sounds from within.
There were none.
I checked my watch. 7:46. I had no choice. I turned the knob.
I peeked my head into the room and was overwhelmed by a horrific, unearthly stench. Gagging, my immediate instinct was to flee. But I couldn’t. I forced myself to go in.
And that’s when I saw it.
In all my years of motherhood, I’ve never seen it’s likes. The baby, my sweet innocent baby, had been defiled by a diaper explosion previously unknown to mankind. I pray its kind is never seen again. It was everywhere – smeared across the crib slats, on the wall, all across the sheets. Baby, my daughter’s beloved lovey, was caked in it. Literally. If it had been any toy other than Baby, it would have immediately met its demise in the trash can. But nobody puts Baby in a trash can.
And then there was MY baby. Caked, head to toe, in her own filth. Across her nose, in her ears, attached to her eyelashes. Up and down her pajamas. Glued to her pacifier.
My oldest clambered up the stairs behind me. “Don’t come in!” I screamed. “Save yourself!” I flung her from the scene of obscenity and rushed her down the stairs, following quickly in her footsteps. I raced out to the garage and saw my husband backing out. The garage door was already going down. I needed reinforcements, and desperately. There was no choice but to launch myself at the garage door and stop it’s descent with my super-human strength.
“Stop!” I screamed down the driveway. “Come back!”
Thankfully, he heard my plight and stopped just in time. I insisted that he return and take L to school – it was 7:48 and we were RUNNING OUT OF TIME. He dashingly took charge of our eldest and escorted her out of our House of Horrors. If only he could have done the same for me.
I immediately wen to the armory; I would need supplies. I pulled on a pair of pink latex gloves and outfitted myself with Clorox and Lysol. It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.
I mounted the stairs once more, this time with the knowledge of what I was facing. I didn’t want to do it. But I had to.