Lucky Seven

I am an eternal optimist. I imagine I will be a silver-lining-seeking fool for the rest of my days. And on almost any other day I would undoubtedly tell you that that's one of my best qualities. That my optimism will never fail me. That it gives me strength to carry on when others would falter.

However, today is not that day.

My optimism has brought me to what I am, in my optimistic-style, calling lucky seven. That's poop number seven.
In the bath tub.
By my eighteen month old daughter.

My husband came in the front door as I was preparing the evening snack for the kids. I had just recovered from my dry-heaving and my hands were raw from scrubbing them with hot soap and water. I'd bleached the tub and bleached the toys and thrown away the face cloths and the bath tub mat. And I cringed a bit as I told him what had happened because I knew I had no one to blame but myself.

You didn't put the swim bottoms on her?

Nope.

Why not?

What could I say? I wanted to reply with any one of these sound and logical reasons:

She'd already GONE poop right before supper!
She needed a really good scrubbing!
I can't put a swim suit on her forever.
It's been WEEKS since she did this!

Instead, all I could do was shrug and say:
Because of one stupid thing... that everyone thinks is a good thing but it's NOT....

What's that?

Hope! Stupid hope.