Week 12 theme

It was a massacre. Shit from carpet to ceiling. I could see the look of horror on the teddy bears face. He was screaming for me to remove him from this hell hole. In this state of shock, my first reaction is to turn around and walk out. Isn't there someone to call to take care of this? I can't possibly be the only option. But I have to keep my composure. One wrong move and I will scar Grady forever.
I walk delicately over the the crib. As I step, avoiding little strays strewn across the floor, I keep finding more and more of it. On the wall, the railing, the mattress, oh god, what has he done? I make it to the crib and take a deep breath. In hindsight, a bad idea. Think now, how do I tell him how utterly disgusting he is without making him feel like an utterly disgusting person? A child's self esteem is a sensitive thing. Or at least that's what I learned in my many child development classes.
When I look him over I am repulsed to the point of gagging. It's like he used it as finger paint. And, wait. Really? It's on his face. Right next to his mouth, did he seriously eat his own shit? Thoughts of crazy online videos people reference flash through my head. I can't even stomach the thought of watching one of those videos, now it is happening right here before me. Is that what I have to look forward to? My son is going to grow up to be another appalling you-tube sensation. I won't have that.
I have to explain to him that this behavior is unacceptable. But he's two. There is no way to portray the magnitude of this abomination.
I leave the room overwhelmed. I have to run him a bath anyway. He will have to soak for at least 24 hours. On the way back into the battlefield, I grab the bleach and a trash bag. I will have to bleach down everything. And throw away his defiled teddy. I'll be doing him a favor, putting him out of his misery because there's no saving him. I carry Grady into the bathroom like he's infected with the plague. My arms out as far as they can stretch, holding under his armpits. I put his clothes in with the teddy, I don't even want to deal with them. I guess he has enough clothes anyway. I drop him in the tub.
While I scrub away the filth, I still can't speak. I'm afraid my raw thoughts will come out. Thoughts that surely would change his life, or at least his vocabulary, dramatically. I decide it is better to say nothing. Later, when I see past this jaded version of my son, I will talk to him about it. For now, I wash away his innocence in a shit filled tub.