My daughter started crawling when she was about six months old. Actually, it wasn't so much of a crawl, as it was her using one arm to slide across our wood floors as the rest of her body was limp and dragged along. She had one strong arm, that's for sure.
One afternoon, she was scooting along and my 2-year-old son picked something off the ground, "What 'dis, Mama?" he asked me. Without taking a very close look—because I had on eye on her as she was shimming away—I told him it was a raisin. I had good reason to believe that was true, as the object in his hand looked exactly like a raisin and he had been snacking on them just an hour before, while his sister napped and he was planted in front of the television.
"NO!" He screamed and threw it back on the ground.
"Oh, Addison. It's just a raisin, eat it if you want."
I couldn't figure out why he was freaking out over a damn raisin and, frankly, I'd been delirious ever since my daughter started crawling. Not only did I have a 2-year-old boy who ran around the house like his hair was on fire all the damn time, but she'd discovered she could not only crawl—she could climb, too. I'd given birth to Dennis The Menace and Spider Woman.
He kept picking it up and looking at it, throwing it on the ground, and then picking it up again. "I want 'aisn (raisins)," he said over and over. Apparently this old raisin gave him another craving for his favorite snack, but he wasn't interested in one that had been laying on the floor.
"I can't get them for you right now, honey. Just eat that one. ITS FINE!" I just wanted it to stop. I was chasing after his sister and he was on the cusp of a tantrum and I couldn't deal with it.
I made my son eat poop! I told him to do it! I wasn't paying attention.
I picked up his sister, put my hand on the small of her back and felt a few more "raisins" fall out her pant leg. The small pebble-like turds had peen pushed out of her diaper onto her back because of the way she crawled. Then it hit me all at once: She's been really constipated and those "raisins" were the result.
Also, I'd told my son a few times over to eat a piece of shit from the floor.
OH. MY. GOD.
"ADDISON, DON'T EAT THE—"
But alas, I was too late. I turned to face him and he was standing there, scratching at his tongue and on the verge of tears. "Mama, I HATE 'AISIN."
A turd fell to the floor in a wet, spit-covered lump. I quickly picked it up, put my daughter down, washed my hands and then my son's mouth. He didn't eat the tiny poo, but he did roll it around in there for a good minute.
Of course, I broke down and cried and felt like the worst mother in the universe. I made my son eat poop! I told him to do it! I wasn't paying attention.
Needless to say, my son hasn't eaten a raisin since and I'm able to joke about it now, 12 years later, despite how stupid I felt at the time. In fact, my kids love it when I tell them this story, so we get a good laugh out of it a few times a year.
Also, it must be known that my son likes to tease his little sister—a lot. More than once she's put a stop to his taunting by saying, "Dude, you ate a piece of my crap, so shut it."
And it works.
I'm just glad making my son taste his sister's feces has paid off in some way.