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?”
“Poopy!”
“Colin, what movie do you want to watch?”
“Poo-poo!”
“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.
