Sheesh.  Who’da thunk that the hint of a poop on the ceiling story would elicit such a response?

Ah, but I set the ball in motion so now I’m obligated to see this thing through.  You ready for this?  It’s a doozie.  Or a poo-zie, depending on how you look at it.

C’mon.  You know I had to say it.

So as moms we’ve all dealt with our share of poop right?  In the diaper, the training pants, the occasional accident in the bathing suit maybe.

But how many of you can say that you’ve experienced poop on the ceiling?

Nary a one, I venture to guess.

Unless you were a guest at Torri’s 11th sleepover birthday party.  Then you may have been witness to the flung dung, the squishee up above.

But don’t go jumping to conclusions.  Torri would certainly have a massive coronary if I were to let you believe that the poo in question had anything to do with her.  Or her friends.  Or anyone she considers remotely socially apt.

The poo, as you may have guessed, hailed from my youngest daughter: the burping, farting girl.  I suppose after this story you can add poo-flinging to her claim to fame.

It was early evening on the night of Torri’s party.  Her friends were to be arriving shortly.  As is quite common for me, I was in the midst of a last-minute cleaning frenzy, putting the finishing touches on the party decorations.  As is also quite common, I had put Jeff to work, washing dishes, taking out the traash, or doing another form of meanial labor in preparation for the receiving of guests.

Cassidy was in the midst of a two-year-long attempt at potty-training.  She was on the verge of success, though we were still battling those unexpected accidents, of both the numbers 1 and 2 variety.  Her older sisters were quite helpful in our potty-training quest, assisting Cassidy in the bathroom to the extent they were able.

Such was the case on this day in particular.

With both Jeff and I busy with party prep, Kennedy took it upon herself to answer Cassidy’s calls from the toilet.  And really, how can you not love her for that?

Apparently, Cassidy had done the deed in her panties.  She ran to the potty to remedy the situation but alas, she arrived too late.  So she did what any red blooded American girl would do and took off those nasty drawers.  The story gets a bit fuzzy here so excuse my blurring of details.  As Kennedy reports it though, she walked into the bathroom right on time to see Cassidy throw her poo-filled panties into the air.

I couldn’t begin to guess as to her reason for doing so.  Long ago I learned not to question Cassidy’s nuances, but just to accept them unconditionally.

It’s really better for us all that way.

Back to the story though.  Kennedy arrived mid-panty fling only to see them hit the ceiling.  They stuck there for a moment, before gravity had it’s way with the soiled chonies.  Apparently though, the poo itself possessed enough sticky qualities to defy the pull of nature, and remained there: a pile of poo adhered solidly to the ceiling.

It was about this time that Jeff caught wind, via Torri (who, at the time thought the situation was hilarious though she would never admit to it now), of the mishap occurring in the bathroom.  The guest bathroom by the way.  The bathroom which Torri’s tween guests were expected to use.

Jeff’s quick survey of the area left no room for doubt that a thorough scrub down of both the offender and the offendee (in this case the surrounding floor and exterior of the toilet bowl) were in order.

He acted quickly, (gotta love that military training), and stripped Cassidy down before tossing her into the bathtub.  He then donned my yellow cleaning gloves and furiously scrubbed, sanitized, and sanctified, all while Cassidy soaked in the tub.  Apparently though, the water he drew for Cassidy’s bath was a tad too warm and warranted complaint from our little dung flinger.  Before you go rushing to her defense I should tell you that Cassidy has an aversion to warm water.  She would be much happier bathing in a mountain stream than a natural hot spring.

Jeff began explaining to her that in situations where poo is involved, the water has to be warm enough to kill the bacteria contained in said poo.  At the mention of the ‘p’ word, Cassidy, whose perspective gave her a clear view of the ceiling poop, pointed up towards it and said, “poop like that?”

Jeff turned towards the direction of her pointed finger when what to his wondering eye should appear, but a suspended dung pile from Cassidy’s rear.

You can imagine the bewilderment.

What you cannot fully grasp, without having been there, is the sight of my husband standing on the toilet, reaching up with his gloved hands to remove turds from the ceiling.

No.  You just can’t imagine.

I can tell you though that crunches or any other ab exercises were unnecessary for me for a period of roughly two weeks after because I laughed harder that day than I possibly have ever laughed before.

The laughter, though, was not only in response to the scene that unfolded before me.

The laughter was, in part, in response to the possibility of what very well could have happened.

You see, the poo was stuck directly above the toilet.  The toilet which Jeff was bent over scrubbing and sanitizing for at least a good five minutes.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

Imagine for a moment the possibility of that dung losing it’s adhesive quality at precisely the right second.

It would have been like manna from the heavens, only not as welcome a surprise.

And words cannot convey the sheer hilarity of just such an inopportune event.

Can you even imagine?

Oh friends.  I can.  And I have.  Many a time.  And to this very day just the thought brings me great joy.

I’m not the least bit discriminatory when it comes to gross things happening to my husband by chance.  I’d never intentionally set up such an event, but had a pile of dung unintentionally landed upon his unsuspecting head? well, now there is just no denying the humor in that.

He’s a lucky man, this husband of mine.

So there you have it.  The poop on the ceiling story in all its glory.

Boy.  After yesterday’s post, and now this, I bet you’ll all be extra careful should ever you find yourself needing to tinkle while visiting my home.

That’s probably a good idea, fyi.