Did you think your dating days were over when you settled down with your soulmate? The below is what it might look like when you make it to third base with your mom friend — get ready, these bases are just a little different from the romantic ones.
So you’ve made it to third base. It’s about to get real. Up in here. Up. In. Here. Third base is not for people who pretend they have it all together. Even if you can manage a decent façade for a couple of hours, on third base, your kids will out you before you can say, “Welcome to my home.” On third, your kids are playing on home field, which means they’ll act like they do at home, which means your friend will see how your kids actually behave and how you handle or don’t handle it. Yeah.
If that doesn’t scare the crapstick out of you, let me describe a recent third-base date I had. Everyone’s behavior was actually not too horrific. We were doing well. And then.
My friend’s 3-year-old took a dump in the upstairs bathroom and used the entire roll of toilet paper. As she walked out, eschewing the apparently optional hand-washing idea, I walked in to a rapidly rising toilet of man-sized floaters. I surveyed the scene and did what any excellent hostess would do. I walked right out. I did. I just pretended like I had no idea that was going down, or actually not going down, which was the problem.
I heard my own 3-year-old screaming from the downstairs bathroom, and as I entered that hot mess, my nostrils promptly lost all nose hair, burnt right off from the toxic stench of my daughter’s turdly disaster. As I bent over to wipe her, she apologized, “I’m sorry, Mommy.” I didn’t understand this and assured her that poop is normal and to poop in the potty is fabulous and no apology needed. And then I helped her off the potty.
Prior to my entering the scene, she had used her butt as a paintbrush, a paintbutt if you will, to smear feces from the base of the potty up the side, around the seat, on her undies, shorts, and sparkly light-up shoes. All I could get out was, “How!?!?” in a strained, desperate voice. While she washed her hands, I peeled the undies and shorts off and threw them in the trash, because, just, whatever, I couldn’t handle it with my friend right upstairs sitting on my couch and who knows if she’d discovered the clogged toilet yet.
I cleaned the toilet, the tile, and the grout, then hoisted Poopie Monster up the stairs and into a quick bath, because stuff was in places that wasn’t coming off without soaking.
New outfit, drain the tub, the obligatory 48 rounds of hand washing, and I was back on the couch to resume talking with my friend about what a typical day looks like for us. Did I mention that she’s from out of town and I never see her so she has no basis for what my typical day looks like and might think that I spend every day covered in dookie?
And then I see my husband come out of the clogged bathroom. Bless his heart. He’d handled it and my friend was none the wiser. Until now, if she’s reading this.
After she and her gang left, another friend came over with her gaggle of children, and at this point, you might be wondering what kind of mom-dating Casanova I am. What can I say, my animal magnetism and toilet seats draw them in, ladies. You know you want some.
My friend asked where the bathroom was, and when she came back, let me know that she almost sat in poop and had to clean off the seat. Because apparently my child number two (pun intended) took a dump in between rocking playdates and somehow smeared it on the seat, or maybe Clogger Girl left some remnants. I’m not sure. The point is, it’s impossible to die of embarrassment because I tried right then and it didn’t work.
The next day, as I walked upstairs, I discovered that our banister was also covered in dried poo.
And this is third base. Not every date is this disgusting and most people don’t have moms coming in and out of their houses like they’re operating a coffeepot at Grand Central Station, but for sure, third base, it’s real life, which for us apparently means gross.
Adapted from Women Are Scary by Melanie Dale. Copyright 2015 by Melanie Dale. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
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