Scrub-a-dub Bubble 🛁 💩

Parenthood is full of firsts — first steps, first words, first foods. Some are heartwarming. Some are hilarious. And some… well, some you’d rather forget.

Up until this particular summer day, I was riding a high. My two-year-old had managed to make it through toddlerhood with no major incidents in the tub. No floaters. No accidents. No horror stories. We had a streak going. Clean, literal and metaphorical.

And then, we visited my cousin’s house.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon — the kind of day where everything feels just a little too perfect, which in hindsight should’ve been a red flag. We’d driven several hours to visit distant family we hadn’t seen in a while. They were hosting one of those backyard summer hangouts: barbecue smoking in the background, lawn chairs scattered across the grass, iced tea sweating in pitchers, and kids running wild through sprinklers.

My two-year-old was living their best life — barefoot, sticky with watermelon juice, hair damp from playing outside. They looked like a tiny feral creature of summer joy. Naturally, they were a sticky mess by mid-afternoon, so I decided to give them a quick bath before dinner.

My cousin graciously offered her bathroom and even laid out a fluffy towel and bubble bath. It was one of those beautifully decorated guest bathrooms — spotless, smell-good candles everywhere, pristine white tub. You know the type: the kind of bathroom you feel guilty even breathing in, let alone using for toddler cleanup duty.

But I was confident. After all, my kid had never pooped in the tub. Not once. We had a track record. A sacred bond of trust, even.

So, I ran the bath. Tossed in a few bath toys. Lowered my child into the water. They splashed happily, humming and playing with a plastic duck like they were the star of a shampoo commercial.

I leaned back, relaxed, even felt a bit smug. Look at me, I thought. Nailing parenthood. Traveling, socializing, and still getting this kid cleaned up before dinner. I might just be amazing at this.

And then, it happened.

At first, I saw a change in expression. My child froze mid-splash. I hear bubbles come up from the water.

I knew that look. I had about 1.5 seconds to react.

“No. No-no-no,” I whispered, lunging forward like I was trying to intercept a grenade.

Too late.

There, in the crystal clear, bubbly water of my cousin’s pristine bathtub… it emerged. A lone, defiant turd.

I gasped audibly, like I’d just witnessed a crime. My child, completely unfazed, resumed playing as if nothing had happened — as if a small piece of them hadn’t just violated every known law of hospitality.

I stood there in silent horror, staring into the water like it had betrayed me personally. The bubbles were no longer bubbles. They were a minefield. A disguise. A lie.

I yanked my child out of the tub like a lifeguard pulling someone from a shark attack. Water sloshed everywhere. I wrapped them in the nearest towel — not caring that it was probably the nice towel — and plopped them on the tile floor.

Then, I just stared at the tub. At the now brown-tinged water. At the little floater spinning slowly with the current from the faucet.

A wave of panic hit me. This isn’t my house. This isn’t even my city. I couldn’t just rinse it and walk away. I was in someone else’s sacred guest bathroom, and my kid had dropped a nuclear bomb in their tub.

Now, here’s the thing about poop-in-the-tub cleanup: there’s no elegant way to do it. No glamorous solution. I didn’t have gloves. I didn’t have backup clothes. I didn’t have dignity at this point.

I found a plastic cup on the bathroom counter (which I later threw away, obviously), scooped the offending item out like I was on a survival mission, and flushed it. Then I spent the next 15 minutes draining the tub, cleaning every surface with wet wipes, hand soap, toilet paper — anything within arm’s reach. I was using cotton rounds like I was detailing a car.

Meanwhile, my two-year-old sat on the bath mat, wrapped like a burrito in the towel, grinning.

As I cleaned, I could hear the rest of the family laughing and chatting outside, unaware of the war crime unfolding inside the house. I debated whether to confess. Maybe I could sneak away, say nothing, pretend the plumbing had a “weird bubble issue.”

But I knew I couldn’t live with the guilt.

I emerged from the bathroom with my child under one arm and a sheepish look on my face. My cousin looked up from the grill and smiled.

“All clean?” she asked.

I took a deep breath. “Well… sort of.”

I explained. She blinked. Then burst out laughing — the kind of laugh that comes from a place of shared parenting trauma.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, waving me off. “We’ve had three kids. That tub’s seen worse.”

I wanted to believe her, but based on the showroom shine of that bathroom, I seriously doubted it.

Later that evening, as my kid ran around freshly diapered and scandal-free, I overheard my cousin quietly tell her husband, “So… the tub incident was today.”

From that day forward, my child earned a new nickname in the family group chat: Turd Ferguson. They don’t know what it means yet. Someday they will.

And as for me? I’ve never trusted a peaceful bath again.