Poop, Puke, and Pool Chairs: A Vacation Tale

WARNING: This post may not be for you if you get squeamish when talking about poop and vomit. Reader discretion is advised. I am not your boss, though. Just warning you.

The family bathroom door won’t stop jiggling, my four-year-old is crying like I just told him Daniel Tiger was canceled forever, and I’m frantically trying to clean myself up while holding off what feels like a slow-brewing panic attack in a soaking wet bathing suit. Glamorous, I know. How did I get here, you ask? Oh honey, grab a coffee (or a wine glass—I don’t judge), because this story is peak motherhood and it’s got everything: chaos, bodily fluids, and questionable life choices in a different country.

Cancun, Mexico—land of sun, sand, and pretending you’re not a parent for five minutes. It was our last glorious day in paradise, and my husband, Mike, and I decided to splurge on massages. My stomach had been acting a little shady that morning, but it had calmed down just enough for me to confidently let a stranger rub oil on my back while I mentally vacationed from my real life.

Meanwhile, Mike stayed behind with our four-year-old son, Miles, and let’s just say… their morning included a surprise bathroom adventure. I won’t spoil his tale—it’s his trauma to process—but let’s just call it a foreshadowing of what my afternoon had in store. Dun dun dun…

Now it was Mike’s turn to relax, so off he went to the sauna to sweat out his parenting sins. Miles and I headed to the pool, ready for some splashy fun. It was early afternoon, which meant most of the chairs were already claimed by towel-hoarding vacation pros.

But then—cue angelic choir—my introvert heart spotted an empty section like a mirage in the desert. I launched toward those chairs like a mom on a mission, flung our stuff down like I was claiming territory on Survivor, and cannonballed into the pool before anyone could challenge my spot. Victory.

At that point, my stomach was behaving itself for once—no ominous gurgles, no threats. Miles and I were floating blissfully in the pool, living our best lives with absolutely no one around. It was quiet. Peaceful. Suspiciously perfect.

Then a pool attendant strolled over to help open the world’s most complicated umbrella and asked if we wanted drinks. I mean, was this heaven? A kid entertained, shade on standby, and someone offering me beverages like I’m royalty? Life. Was. Good. Nothing could go wrong.

About an hour into bliss, my stomach suddenly decided to betray me. Hard. I knew instantly—it was the yogurt from breakfast. And yes, before you judge me: I am lactose intolerant, but dairy and I are in a toxic relationship, and I refuse to be the one to walk away. I will go down swinging… with cheese in one hand and regret in the other.

At first, I tried to play it cool—mind over matter, right? Maybe if I ignored it, it would just…evaporate. But the stakes were high: our poolside chairs (prime real estate), our fun, and my dignity in a crowded pool. The internal storm was brewing fast, and I realized this wasn’t a drill.

I leaned over to Miles and said, with the false confidence of a woman lying to herself, “Boo boo, mommy has to go to the bathroom. We’ll be right back.”

Narrator voice: They would, in fact, not be right back.

I dragged Miles out of the pool like a soggy little protester and beelined it to the bathrooms. Thankfully, they were close by and—hallelujah—the family bathroom was vacant. A true unicorn moment.

Miles, in his infinite four-year-old wisdom, declared, “I’ll wait outside.” And I, in my anxiety-fueled mom mode, replied, “Absolutely not. You’re four. You’ll get taken.” (Was it dramatic? Sure. But I’ve seen the news headlines and decided today I didn’t want to become one.)

He reluctantly followed me in, blissfully unaware of the emotional trauma he was about to endure. I, however, knew. Oh, I knew.

Door locked. Me—barely holding on—finally sat down. And that’s when the chaos began.

Miles immediately started with, “How long are we gonna be in here?” in the same tone someone might use for a hostage negotiation. The door handle began jiggling like someone was testing if they, too, could witness the madness inside. And there I was—mid-crisis, nowhere near done.

Then, as the smell hit, Miles turned to me with pure horror in his eyes, pointed an accusatory little finger, and shrieked:

“ARE YOU POOPING?!”

It echoed. It echoed in my soul.

And this, dear reader, is where it all goes straight to hell.

I calmly tell Miles, “Yes, I am pooping. Everyone poops.” You’d think I confessed to a felony. He was not having it. In true four-year-old dramatic fashion, he starts gagging like I’ve unleashed chemical warfare.

I decide this is no longer a moment for dignity. This is survival. I say, “Fuck it,” and start wiping—but of course, it’s one of those wipes. You know the kind. The marker wipe. (If you know, you know. If not—Google it. I dare you.)

Meanwhile, Miles is dry heaving in the corner, and I’m frantically begging him, “If you’re gonna puke, please at least do it in the toilet!” The door handle is still jiggling like they think I’m in here doing a spa treatment and not actively losing my will to live.

Then it happens. Miles starts crying—actual tears—and through sobs and gags, “Mom, you pooped!” Like I am the most disgusting human to ever live. “I want to leave now!” Proceeds to try to unlock the door. At this moment, I am in a full squat waddling over to make sure its secure and tell him I am almost done.

I’m still wiping. He’s still gagging. The door handle is still doing its little haunted shimmy. And then, just when I think we’ve hit rock bottom… he throws up. On the floor. Right next to me.

At that exact moment, I question every life choice that led me here.

There’s vomit on the floor, on his hands, on his face… and yes, on my foot. I’m hunched over, mid-wipe, in what can only be described as the seventh circle of parenthood hell, trying to clean myself up while also now being responsible for human puke cleanup.

Now, let me be clear: I can handle poop. I can deal with boogers. But vomit? I tap Mike in every time. I can’t handle it no matter how hard I try. But Mike is not here and I realize I am the only adult in this situation and have to face my vomit fears.

Miles is full-on crying now, demanding we leave immediately. I’m still not done wiping, still not clean, and that god damn door handle is STILL jiggling like someone thinks I’m just in here casually applying mascara.

This is the moment—sweaty, gross, and half-wiped—that I break. I decide we’re leaving. I will finish this nightmare in the privacy of our hotel room, where at least I can ugly-cry in peace.

So I clean the vomit—his hands, his mouth, my foot (!!!), and flush the toilet for what feels like the fifteenth time. Then I do the walk of shame out of the family bathroom, holding Miles like a traumatized wet noodle, and lock eyes with the poor, unsuspecting family with a baby waiting to go in.

They look annoyed and I do a small smile like it will make this whole situation better. They had no idea what kind of war zone they were walking into.

Miles is pissed that we’re not heading back to the pool. He’s protesting like I just canceled our vacation. Meanwhile, I’m silently mourning the loss of our precious pool chairs—those glorious, shady thrones I fought so hard to claim. But at this point, dignity, hydration, and comfort are all dead to me.

I scoop up our stuff, trying to walk without my soaked bathing suit crawling into places it has no business being, and begin the long, awkward waddle of shame. Miles is dragging his feet, muttering toddler curses under his breath, and I’m dragging my soul, one flip-flop at a time.

Our room, of course, is on the third floor and approximately a five-minute walk through the world’s hottest, and humid pathway. It might as well be the Oregon Trail, and I’m out here leading the caravan with swamp butt and a barfy kid in tow.

Vacation as a parent, am I right?

I’m speed-walking like a woman possessed, yelling over my shoulder at Miles to keep up, which is hard when he’s flopping along like a furious, sunburnt jellyfish. At the same time, I’m furiously texting Mike a full play-by-play of the bathroom apocalypse, knowing damn well he’s probably face-down in a robe, getting massaged by someone named Sandra, blissfully unaware that his wife is out here fighting for her life.

Still, I send the message with the blind hope that he somehow has his phone on the massage table and will reply with comforting lies like, “I will be right there.” Knowing this disaster is over and logically, wtf is he going to do?

I mash the elevator button like it owes me money and pray to the resort gods that nobody else gets in with us—because no one needs to be trapped in a small space with the scent of chlorine, anxiety, and lingering child vomit.

Floor three. Home. Salvation and a bathroom where no one will continue to jiggle the GD door handle.

I survived. Miles got to go back to the pool, but more importantly, I survived. By some miracle, our original chairs were still there—untouched, like tiny poolside thrones sent from the heavens. Bless.

Mike strolls back from his massage, glowing like he just got reborn at a spa retreat, completely unaware that I’ve just lived through a bodily-fluid-themed horror show. He finally checks his phone, reads my disaster texts, and starts laughing. LAUGHING.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there, still emotionally bruised, staring blankly into the distance like a war veteran trying to make sense of it all.

But then I glance over and see my sweet, blonde, chaos-producing child splashing happily, living his best vacation life like nothing ever happened. And I realize—parenting is not for the weak. It’s for the emotionally unstable but wildly resilient.

And me? I’m strong as hell. I conquered my biggest fear: vomit. (For now.)