I grew up with two older brothers, so conversations about poop were pretty much a given at the dinner table.
I could never quite figure out why my mom and grandparents were so appalled and annoyed by our topic of conversation. There were plenty of times when I about pissed my pants hearing stories of big ones, little ones, smelly ones, ones that clogged the toilet and well, you get the picture. I know several times one of the adults at our table would break “disgusted parental figure role” and laugh and then tell one of their own. When it wasn’t poop, it was farts and when both those subjects lost their luster, fake fart sounds were made with armpits. H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S!
Now, poop is a little less funny. Oh sure, I have plenty of good poop stories from raising kids. One of my favorites was from before I even had kids and was a teenager babysitting for two kids, ages 3 and 1. Little Johnny (names have been changed to protect the innocent) was in the process of being potty trained and he and Little Sally were downstairs playing while I received instructions from their parents on what to feed them, bedtime, when they’d be home, etc. I closed the door behind the parents and walked down to get the little monsters and make them some dinner. Much to my dismay, they were playing with the Christmas tree and had removed a bunch of ornaments. Upon further investigation, it looked like they were covered in chocolate. I thought for sure they had gotten into the candy dish or something. No such luck. Little Johnny had removed his new big boy underpants that he had just shat in and was showing his kid sis the wonders of finger painting with poop…on the floor…on the ornaments…on themselves.
I promptly grabbed both toddlers and brought them upstairs to hose them down. Once I got them cleaned up and dressed, I threw away the unsalvageable ornaments and scrubbed the floors. What a mess, but what a GREAT story for the dinner table the next night! My brothers would be so impressed!
Now I’ve got my own little monsters to clean up after. It all started with the pets. Walking two dogs, twice daily meant a lot of carrying hot shit in a plastic bag around the neighborhood. The cat meant scooping poop, changing litter and now, chasing the dog away from the litter box because she thinks cat turds are a delicacy.
Once the kids came, the shit really start to fly! Tar poops, mustard seed poops, followed by projectile poops. The poops that sounded like Mt. Vesuvius despite the fact my perfect little angel was sleeping soundly or happily nursing. Then, I’d stand up to discover that the kid shat up their entire back, or the out the sides of the diaper or both! I’d run to strip the baby down, and sometimes myself, depending on directionality, and Tom would walk in from work and I’d be standing there, half-naked trying to clean up the aftermath. Tom looked confused because B.C. (Before Children), walking into a half-naked wife meant a romantic evening, but A.C. (After Children) it meant even if I did make dinner, he wasn’t eating it. My favorites were the explosions that occurred in any one of the various large baby apparatuses, the swing, Exersaucer, Bumbo or the one that always delivered a B.M.; the vibrating bouncy seat. That damn thing was like coffee and a cigarette after a big meal. But what was worse was cleaning up those items. Pealing off covers, wiping down little attachments and the straps and clips that would get poop stuck in every crevice. Yuk. I almost felt bad selling all those things in my garage sales, not because it meant my babies weren’t babies anymore, but because I knew what things had been deposited in them!
The kids get a little older, the poop gets firmer and more predictable and until your little angels start taking man-poops, you enjoy a little bit of a reprieve. You can laugh at them when they hide in a corner to do their “business.” You figure out the places that always mean a diaper will be filled, like going to the library, when they play at train tables or every time you go to grandma’s house. You think it is cute when they drop everything they are doing and suddenly their face gets red and their lips curl a bit and then their eyes start watering and you know a diaper change is due. Then you have the silent but deadly pooper like Colin. No pause, no grunts, no red face, just a sudden aroma that you can smell from a mile away…unless you are Tom.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come home from being out and Tom is with the kids and I pull into the garage and can literally smell Colin’s diaper coming under the door (despite the fact it is sealed) from the garage to the house. I walk in and expecting everyone to be in a slightly comatose state due to the fumes, but instead everyone is going about their business as if nothing happened. I am pretty sure that despite the fact Tom denies smelling anything, he secretly has been holding his breath, literally and figuratively, until I get home and can change it myself.
I think my infamous “What’s Grosser Than Gross” blog from last year pretty much sums up the ultimate hilarious “my kid pooped in the worst possible place at the worst possible time and if I wasn’t laughing so hard, I’d probably have thrown up” scenario. As parents, we’ve all had them, we’ve all had to clean them up and we’ve all lived to tell about them.
And don’t think that just because once you potty train, your cleaning up poop days are over. Nope. The kid goes on antibiotics for a double ear infection and you get loose stool (sorry, that is one of my least favorite terms, but had to use it) and not only do they have to go every hour, they leave skid marks no matter how well you wipe them. I thought I had enough skid marks to clean up…just sayin’.
In addition to that, even on the best days they still haven’t quite grasped wiping themselves task and you are summoned at the most inopportune times to stop what you are doing because they “are done going POOPY!!!!” Then, you get in the bathroom and they feel it necessary to give a commentary on how it smells and what shape it is. I never knew a kid could poop the shape of a rhinoceros, but apparently Maddie’s got talent.
Colin is not potty trained yet, (or as he calls it “Riding on the potty train”) but he certainly talks about poop and pee enough. In fact I hear “poopy, poo, poop, pee-pee, poo-poo” so much, I am beginning to think he has Turrets’ Syndrome and simply shouts it out randomly. I don’t know what is more un-nerving, him getting kicked out of preschool for trying to bite the teacher or his constant potty talk. It starts from the moment he wakes up in the morning. Before he can even open his eyes, he starts saying it. Then, he starts answering every question with the same response, “poopy.”
“Colin, what do you want for breakfast?”
“Colin, what movie do you want to watch?”
“Colin, it is time to go to school. Let’s go!”
“No, school is poopy!”
And when he isn’t saying some variation of “poop,” he says he hates things….because they are poopy.
He has started to use in other context that are especially embarrassing, like the other day when we were in the grocery store and I took him off the mechanical horse so another little girl could have a turn. He promptly shouted, “Go away, you poopy GIRL!” That poor little 2-year old girl didn’t know what hit her…on second thought at least he didn’t hit her.
He also tells me I’m “a poopy girl.” Now that is love.
Our entire Christmas dinner consisted of him repeating the words “poop” and “poopy,” until we finally resorted to putting a bar of soap in his mouth. Didn’t work. Even my mom gave him a stern talking-to and it didn’t work. Secretly I think she was happy we were getting our revenge for all the Holiday dinners we ruined with our potty talk.
I even tried a new tactic we are using with him when he makes bad choices and have him “try again.” We told him to pick a better word and his response is now “soap.” Guess the old fashioned washing his mouth out with soap left a lasting impression after all.
Just when we thought poop was no longer funny, Maddie got put on an antibiotic that turned her poop bright pink. It was like Pinkalicious and her Pinkerific Poop! She was tickled pink that she had the ability to poop her favorite color. Fantastic.
So, after reviewing this entry, I guess I can say stories about poop are still pretty funny…it is just the word that is no longer funny. I am pretty sure potty talk is gonna be around for awhile. I know farts will eventually make their way into the repertoire, but I am hoping at some point the discussions will at least have plot.