From Butt to Canvas – The Art Nobody Asked For

Let’s get one thing straight: no one prepares you for two kids under two. Not your mom, not your friends, not that one crunchy Facebook group with tips like “just breathe.” Nope. You’re on your own in this toddler tornado.

My two youngest are 14 months apart. Which means they’re basically twins, except one’s mobile and the other’s defenseless. You see where this is going.

It was already one of those days — the kind of day where the coffee’s cold, the house looks like it got robbed, and I’m being used as a human climbing wall while trying to break up a screaming match over who gets the blue sippy cup (even though they’re identical, I checked. Science can’t explain toddler logic).

Finally — finally — sweet silence. Both of them had passed out on the couch like tiny drunk frat boys after a bender. I thought, “This is my chance. I can pee. Alone.” I should’ve known better.

Because in mom life, silence isn’t peace. Silence is a threat.

I come back from my luxurious 45-second bathroom break and immediately smell something... earthy.

I walk into the living room and there’s my toddler — completely butt-naked, standing like a proud caveman who just discovered fire. Except instead of fire, he discovered his own poop. And used it as paint.

It’s all over his legs. All. Over. The. Carpet. He had full-on scooted like a dog. There's a literal brown streak from one end of the room to the other. At this point, I’m so stunned I can’t even react. My brain blue-screened.

Then I hear the words no parent ever wants to hear in this context:

“MOMMY! LOOK WHAT I MADE!”

And that’s when I saw her.

My sweet, innocent baby girl. Once peacefully napping. Now? She looked like a Jackson Pollock painting... if he’d exclusively worked in poop. She had poop on her cheeks, poop on her forehead, poop in places I didn't even know could get pooped on.

And this little dude? He’s just beaming. Proud. As if he just earned his spot in the toddler hall of fame. Like, “You’re welcome for the masterpiece, Mother.”

I laughed. Not a normal laugh — the kind of laugh where you know you’re two seconds away from a full mental break and you’ve decided to just ride the wave. The kind of laugh that says, “If I don’t laugh, I will cry and possibly move out.”

What followed was a montage straight out of a horror film:

• Wake the poop-covered baby

• Bathe both children like hazmat victims

• Roll up the defiled carpet like a crime scene body and chuck it out the door

• Bleach everything that wasn’t breathing

• Realize my bathroom also looks like a crime scene

• THEN remember I still had three loads of laundry to do, because obviously

By the time my husband got home, I greeted him with both kids in hand and the thousand-yard stare of a woman who’s seen some stuff. I didn’t even say hi. I handed them over like “not my circus, not my monkeys” and locked myself in our bedroom with the dignity I had left (which was none).

Ten minutes later, I emerged, emotionally duct-taped together, and made dinner for our family of six like I wasn’t just elbows-deep in fecal finger paint an hour ago.

And the wildest part?

This was just a regular Tuesday.

So to all the moms out there: If today was awful, if your house smells like poop and broken dreams, if you had to pretend a meltdown wasn’t happening in public — I see you. I am you.

So may your diapers be clean, your coffee be strong, and your carpet forever free of poop smears.