And now a little about Aengus...

It seems that my thoughts are usually consumed with Noah: his education, his moods, his hygiene, his reading habits, his friends. Most of what we choose to do as a family is either because it would be good for Noah or because it's something he wants.

Noah, of course, would claim that everything's always about Aengus. In fact, Noah and I have had volitile discussions about how much I "favor Aengus." Humph. Noah doesn't even realize that he's right: I am favoring one child over the other much of the time. He just doesn't realize it's him I'm usually favoring.

It was about just this subject that I sat down to blog last night. I've been feeling guilty about how little I do for or with Aengus. I mean, he's thriving with this unschooling thing, really, he is. But I wonder if I could be more structured with him if he wanted me to be. Hell, I can barely get my ass outside to push him on the tire swing.

Then, as fate would have it, his body let me know that he needed more attention. He'd been in bed for a couple of hours, I had finished straightening up and checking my email and was about to settle in for an avening of blogging, when--

M-O-O-O-M!

Mad mommy dash up the stairs. Found him wearing just a shirt as he stood crying in the hallway. Now, this is highly unusual, so I knew at a glance that this was more than just another bad dream.

Then. I noticed. The smell.

We went into his room where I found the malodorous source. Apparently the bug that had caused his nausea and vomiting earlier in the week also leads to explosive diarrhea.

Oy.

Not only did this poor kid shit all over his bed (including his beloved stuffed animals), but he also had tried to get to the bathroom and clean up himself, his bed, and the bathroom.

He's six! Guess who gets the Bad Mommy Award this week? In the throes of gastrointestinal chaos, he's concerned about cleaning.

What have I instilled in this child?! It's not like I keep a clean house, or that my kids have been trained to tidy up and keep their rooms pristine. In fact, I always thought of this place as being a bit of a sty, and I can barely keep the bugs at bay. But when the shit literally hit the fan, my baby was worrying about the mess he made.

Bad Mommy. Poor kiddo.

Luckily, I was able to boost his esteem a bit this morning: When he had another incident on the sofa my parents had handed down to us, I told him how I had had diarrhea on that same sofa when I was 15. "So even adults can't help it sometimes, right?" he asked.

Right, kiddo.