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“How much shit can a five-year old have inside of them?” Grumbling, I take the steps back up to the bathroom and double tap on the door. “Sup, little man?”
“I pooped again.”
“Good on ya.”
“I need you to wipe me.”
“What? You’re old enough to wipe yourself. You did the last time, right?”
“Mommy says I don’t do a good enough job when I have flare-ups.”
“And I say you can do this, bud. And you might want to mention you’re allergic to cheese next time I tell you there is going to be cheese in your food.”
“I need a wet wipe, not a lecture.”
I glance at the ceiling. I’m officially my son’s bitch. “On it.” I hustle down to the kitchen and wet a wad of paper towels before hauling ass back upstairs.
I double tap the door again.
“Come in here,” Dante says, unaffected by the lack of privacy.
“I’m good here.”
“No way, I’m not getting up. I don’t want poop juice on my new shoes.”
Holding my breath, I walk in the door where Dante sits swallowed by the rim of the toilet. He’s so small like I was at his age. I hand him the wet paper and step away.
“You can stay,” he offers.
“I’ll just wait outside.”
“You need to check my butt.”
I stand there as he painstakingly takes his time wiping his ass. He doesn’t want to deal with his mother’s disappointment any more than I do, and I get it. That redhead is fire. “I think I’ve got it.”
Thank Christ.
Dante gets up and turns to flush the toilet, and I jerk back in horror when I see the literal shit trailing from his ass down his legs.
“Don’t move!” Gagging uncontrollably, I lift my T-shirt to cover my mouth and open the shower curtain before turning on the faucet.
“What’s wrong?” Dante asks as he turns my way.
“Don’t move, buddy. This is going to take some skill.”
I’m still gagging, my T-shirt giving little aid due to the visual. It’s everywhere. I move him onto the rug, carefully stripping everything around the literal shit sandwich he’s made of himself. When his clothes are finally off, I lift him up by the arms and dispose of him in the shower, praying to God the water takes care of most of the debris.
“I didn’t wipe good?”
Dante looks up at me with innocent eyes, and I can’t help the tug in my chest as his lower lip quivers, but I’m gagging too much to console him.
“We’ll,” gag, gag, gag, dry heave, “fix it.”
I thank Christ Theo is high maintenance with his need for a removable shower head. I use it to get most of the crap off him before covering him in body wash. Shrouded from head to toe in suds, I can still see the shittastic mess running down his legs.
“Okay, okay, I’ve been up against much bigger mountains. I scored a seventy-six-yard touchdown last week after hurdling a defensive end and a safety. I’ve got this.”
Dante giggles, wiggling his butt as my gagging evokes another dry heave.
