I often wonder how I’m doing at this whole parenting gig. It’s not easy, we all admit that. Aside from our children’s outward behavior, there isn’t an easy indicator if we are doing anything right. Are we succeeding or failing, winning or losing, floating or sinking?

I’ve definitely been floating this week. I volunteered to teach the science discovery class at our church’s Vacation Bible School. With 70+ kids trying the hands-on experiments and learning from yours truly, I’ve felt a little supermom-ish. My oldest is so proud to have her mommy teach and loves being my little helper at home as we prepare. When she gazes at me with those wow-my-mom-is-so-cool looks, I can’t help but float.

But tonight was a little different. My little one had an -ahem- incident in the bathtub. A right of passage with our kids, apparently. When our older was about this age, same thing happened. One moment she was happily splashing in the water, the next minute I heard myself screaming “Help! There is POOP in the bathtub!!” And there I stood, motionless. Paralyzed until my Knight in Shining Clorox could race into the room and take control of the hazmat situation. You see, if there is one thing on earth I don’t handle, it’s poo. I can change my own child’s poopy diaper from necessity, but it ends there. I certainly do not clean poo from a bathtub.

I have paid the price in ridicule for five long years. My husband loves to laugh at the vision of me, standing over the tub with a big poo floating past our clean baby girl. Ha. Ha. Ha. Not my best moment. Sink.

It got me again tonight. The little one was happily splashing in the tub with her new (fatal flaw #1) bath toys, a gift from my mom. I turned away (fatal flaw #2) to grab my camera. I wanted to capture the moment. When I heard the tell-tale little grunts, I whipped my head back around fast enough to cause whiplash. Since my husband was not yet home, I instinctively knew there was no use in yelling for help. I grabbed the baby, confused, yet happy to waddle down the hall dripping wet, and did what any other clear-headed mother would do in this situation. I called her sister in to see. We giggled and promised to NEVER make fun of the little one for this. Then I took that camera in my hand, snapped a picture, and sent a one-word text to my poo-cleaning husband. “Hurry!” Sink.

Once I had composed myself, we walked to the other bathroom where we both showered to wash away all thoughts of the icky incident. The poo? We left it as-is until her daddy could clean it up. Float!