We lived in our home with plywood subflooring for three whole years and it was all my fault.

In the year 2001, I had three children in cloth diapers. I know that no one wants to hear yet another mom complain about diapers in a blog but stick with me.

During this season in my life, I was potty training a person whom I shall not name because it might embarrass her to realize this horrific event began with her. (The name starts with an E and ends with a Y and there are a couple of L’s in the middle).

Potty training a child who uses cloth diapers is very different than the typical Pampered Kid. You see, the child can easily pull down the cloth diaper and step out of it when necessary. On this day, E**Y found it necessary to wake me from a deep slumber to say “Momma, me needs a new diaper. Me pooped.” I sat up in bed being careful not to wake the sleeping baby next to me and sat up in a daze. I slipped my pink fuzzy slippers on my feet and headed to the kitchen to start coffee because really, coffee ALWAYS comes first.

While I had become rather immune to the scent of my child’s poo, I realized, in the kitchen, that something was not right. The odor followed me from the bedroom, across the living room, dining room and into the kitchen and I thought to myself “Oh boy…maybe the coffee should wait. This is BAD.” I turned around to head back to the bedroom to fetch a new diaper and that’s when I discovered that I had somehow STEPPED my slippered foot into the messy, abandoned diaper and tracked my child’s poo all over the carpet. I also discovered that I do not have a Super Model’s long stride. It looked like Morticia from the Adams Family had passed through my house in her oh-so-small steps.

By this time the smell was lingering in the air like smoke from a bon fire on a windless night. It must have awakened the other children, too, because one by one each child approached me with this statement: “Mom! Something smells!”

Duh.

I warned them not to follow in their mother’s footsteps and quickly diapered E**y trying to form a game plan for the hazardous waste clean up. No sooner had I freshened E**y up, I heard a splash from the kitchen. It was the unmistakable sound of someone vomiting and I knew right away that it was Logan, aka Mr. Bad Smells Make Me Gag.

Something inside me snapped and everything faded, including the declarations from the other kids that we needed a clean up in aisle three. It was like my mind began to see everything in a nightmarish soap opera dream sequence.

“Mommm…Log-annn jusssst thrrrrrew upppp”

“Ewww. Thaaaat issss grosssss”

“Myyyy stommachhhh doessssn’t feeeeel soooo goooood”

Whoa. That last statement snapped me back into reality. The last thing I needed was one more puddle to clean up.

“Everyone to your rooms. NOW!”

When something traumatic occurs in the human mind, there is a fight or flight instinct which takes place in a primal, primitive way. I grabbed the phone and headed for the door, counted to ten and dialed.

“Hello”

“Kirsten! I stepped in my child’s sh** and tracked it all over the house. Logan threw up in the kitchen because of the smell and I’m calling to tell you that I’m running away from home. My children are going to be raised without a mother now and I’m only calling you so that you can send someone over since they really shouldn’t be alone in this Typhoid Mary home.”

“Okay…explain to me what happened”

So I did.

Kirsten calmed me down enough to make me realize that leaving my children motherless wasn’t the best solution. And that’s when I saw it. It was a green and black solution laying on my husband’s tool bench: A Box Cutter.

I knew what I had to do.

“Kirsten. I’m going to be okay now. Thank you for helping me. I have to go.”

I grabbed the box cutter and reentered my house with a new found strength. I was going to remove the bacteria laden carpet on my own.

So I cleaned up the vomit and sent my children outside. I didn’t want them to witness the destruction of the place they call home. Then, for some reason, I dialed Darren’s work number.

After explaining the whole story I said “Darren, I’m cutting out the carpet. It’s going bye bye. I can’t take it any more.”

“Neen! Don’t!! I’ll be home soon. I’m leaving now!”

“It’s too late Darren. Listen.”

He listened helplessly and heard the unmistakable sound of a dull blade ripping through carpet. I hung up before he had a chance to speak.

***********
Looking back I realize that I did what seemed logical at the time. However, I freely admit that I didn’t think past the point of removing the carpet. We had no “new carpet fund”. We weren’t expecting a windfall on our doorstep. In fact, I lived with plywood subflooring for three years before being able to afford new floorcovering.

Darren chose ceramic tile

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