May 15

My Crappy Relationship With Poop

One of the biggest changes from a childless life to one with children has been my relationship to poop.

Before children, I did not think about poop. I did not talk about poop. I did not desire to look at poop.  Poop and I weren’t really friends.  We hung out at the same places, but the second he showed up, I left.  I couldn’t stand to be in the same room as poop.  He stunk the place up.

Without kids, pooping is just pooping.  You do it, you leave. If you are at a dinner party, you light a match and  pray nobody notices the wafting stink. It’s that simple.  Sure, sometimes maybe you realize you clogged the toilet at the party and you start to panic. This can’t be happening to you, not tonight, not with these new friends you wanted to impress.   And maybe you stare for minutes at the nearly overflowing toilet for signs that the water level is dropping; a sign that you might be able to attempt a second, more productive flush.  Meanwhile you scour the bathroom for a plunger.  There isn’t one.  What kind of idiot doesn’t keep a plunger in their bathroom, you think to yourself.  You turn to the toilet to see that the water is slightly going down.  There is hope! You have a couple minutes to spare so you check your zit in the mirror.  It’s still there; still kickin’ it.  You think about popping it, but decide that because it will most likely turn bright red, you’ll opt to keep the whitehead.  But the whitehead looks bigger than when you arrived at the party.  Maybe if you just pick at it a little….then the top pops off and blood streams down your face.  You picked too hard! Well that sucks!  But you turn around and see that the water level has dropped; you flush again.  SUCCESS!  With a piece of toilet paper on your bloody zit wound, you make a promise to yourself to never again use that much toilet paper;  especially at homes of cheap ass people that don’t buy hardcore power-flushing toilets.

Wait a minute, I have a feeling I’m off topic.  Um….poop!  Right!  Ok –

Now with kids, a large portion of my life is dedicated to the size, amount, color, texture and smell of my kids’ poops.  You never truly understand how important poop is until you have kids.  From very first black tar poops that require a chisel to remove, to the sweet yellow cotton candy poops of the infant, you deal very intimately with it.  You are concerned with every facet of it. Is it too chunky?  Too runny?  Does it smell different?  The same? Should I be worried?  Are those mustard seeds?!  Who fed my kid seeds?!

I can honestly say that I smelled zero butts before I had Noble.  It just wasn’t in the cards.  I really didn’t care if anybody had crapped their pants.  And if somebody’s child pooped ‘em, I was more than happy to become grossed out and make my exit. Now, whenever I remove Alistair from his car seat, whether I’m arriving home, or I’m in a crowded parking lot, the first thing I do is lift his butt to my face and I take a large whiff.  It’s a parent thing. It’s what we do.

Yes, I have a close relationship with poop.  My own butt isn’t the only one I’m wiping these days.  It’s not my ideal scenario, but these are the days and years in which I’m supposed to “cherish every moment,” according to all parents that approach me on the street.  So cherish I will.  No matter how much I may gag, these are the poop days, and I embrace it!

Oh who am I kidding? I don’t cherish that crap.  It’s one of the biggest parenting pains in the ass. Seeing floating poops in the toilet because Noble didn’t flush, wiping poo off of Alistair, god knows how it got out of the diaper and onto his shoulders, trying to figure out if a poop is healthy or not based on a lengthy visual examination, it all is a big pain in the ass…

Alright, that’s enough about poop, I think. Time for some lunch!  Who’s hungry?

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