All Things Poop
Hola all. I would apologize for the delays, but we all know it's cheap and meaningless. Sure, I love the writing, but sometimes things keep us apart. Like what, you ask? Well, since our last encounter it's been stomach flu, traveling, field trips and graduations. You know what it hasn't been? Sleep. One day though, I'll be reunited with that long lost lover as well.
Until then, however, I am back to regale you with tales from the wild boys. Let's start with a little history lesson. Once, a long, long time ago, before I had children (I should maybe add another long or two, because it's really been a while), I was one of those incredibly subconscious people when it came to human excrement. Sure, we know everyone does it. There's even a book. I've read it to several children now. But as a high school and college student I was one of those people who would actually seek out abandoned bathrooms if I absolutely HAD to go in public. I don't think I went for almost three weeks when I moved into a dorm, because that damn bathroom was NEVER empty. It was not something that I talked about, not something that was to be joked about, and truly, something you did your best to deny doing at all if ever the question arose.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Enter Gavin, stage right. For any of you who have not had the beauty of caring for newborns, they poop. They poop in prolific amounts. Despite gaining weight they appear to poop or vomit more than you could have ever possibly fed them. If you are nursing you will stare at your breasts in horror, wondering how that much could have possible come from you. If you use a bottle you will stare at the measurements on the side and then at the diaper, back and forth, doing mental math on calculating from the square inches of diaper, clothing, and diaper table now sprayed with poop if that really equals just the four ounces you swear to all that is holy was in the damn bottle.
They poop loudly. Most often if the room is incredibly quiet. Say, for example, church or a quiet restaurant. That sanctity will be completely annihilated by sounds that non-parents will be certain are too big to come from an infant, which will earn you looks of disgust since you will undoubtedly be holding the little bundle of joy. And if you are married to the cop, who knows how mortified you are, he will say something like "OH MY GOD JEN! Don't you DARE blame THAT on the baby!"
They will poop ON you. Often while you are somewhere remote, far away from a change of clothing for yourself despite having forty outfits packed for the little one. You will shift them while holding them JUST enough so that poop will shoot straight out the bottom of where the diaper had previously been snuggly adjusted to skin. You will try to find a way to carry the baby to cover the poop you are now wearing. You will then have to find clothing for both of you to change into. If you are like me you will probably cry, but only the first time. Beyond that you just get too tired to care.
Which is what brings you into and through potty training. Sure, there are accidents. A lot of accidents. If you are my kid you will at least once find a way to get only the toilet paper, which will not have actually been used, into the toilet. This, while managing to poop on the floor, then sit on the floor with unwiped bum to put just your sandles on and run outside to play, bare ass naked from the waist down but for the sandles, and covered in enough poo smears to let me know that I should take at least two shots of something stiff before venturing in the bathroom to clean up.
Now then, did I mention we recently dealt with a bout of stomach flu? Gabriel, our poor little four year old, got it far worse than anyone else in the family. So badly that I actually spent Mother's Day in the emergency room to rule out appendicitis. But it led us back to...that's right, more poop. It involved conversations about how yes, he did need to take medicine, because no, that wasn't just pee...pee doesn't come from there. And after a while, when he got sick of the medicine, it came back to gleeful statements from Gabe like "Mom! MOM!!! I pooped and it was big and hard! No diarrhea poop for me!!!" Which would be fine, except again it tends to be shouted out in restaurants.
And did I mention the travelling? In combination with Gabe's recovery, this is what led him to outing the biker in the next stall at a restaurant bathroom. Because Gabe may have been almost better, but something was not agreeing with that guy, who was in the next stall. But Gabe wasn't risking any more medicine, so every time the guy next to him let go Gabe was sure to yell out to the cop, who was standing outside the stall "that's NOT ME dad!!! I am NOT HAVING that diarrhea poop!" Until eventually the poor biker had to acknowledge it and also announced to the cop "yeah, that was me..."
Last week Gabe ate the tip of his spork on accident during lunch. He was terrified he would live and die with that bad boy inside of him. But his loving teacher assured him he'd poop it out. Which is how we got to me being greeted with "Hey mom, I ate my fork but I'll just poop it out" at pick up time. At this point I've lost almost all humility in this regard. But I decided it was time to tell the boys, AGAIN, that we should probably limit our bathroom talk to when we are in private.
Did I mention the field trip? Because it was to a Science Farm. With about 70 kindergarteners. You know what they have at farms? Animals. You know what they talk about to intrigue 70 kindergarteners? Animal poop. And farting. Gavin looked at me in giddy excitement and I told him to go ahead, talk away. I give up.
So here we are, limited in our company to parents or people who are extremely poo tolerant. Because I can't beat it. And admittedly I now giggle quite a bit about it.
Until next time.
Until then, however, I am back to regale you with tales from the wild boys. Let's start with a little history lesson. Once, a long, long time ago, before I had children (I should maybe add another long or two, because it's really been a while), I was one of those incredibly subconscious people when it came to human excrement. Sure, we know everyone does it. There's even a book. I've read it to several children now. But as a high school and college student I was one of those people who would actually seek out abandoned bathrooms if I absolutely HAD to go in public. I don't think I went for almost three weeks when I moved into a dorm, because that damn bathroom was NEVER empty. It was not something that I talked about, not something that was to be joked about, and truly, something you did your best to deny doing at all if ever the question arose.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Enter Gavin, stage right. For any of you who have not had the beauty of caring for newborns, they poop. They poop in prolific amounts. Despite gaining weight they appear to poop or vomit more than you could have ever possibly fed them. If you are nursing you will stare at your breasts in horror, wondering how that much could have possible come from you. If you use a bottle you will stare at the measurements on the side and then at the diaper, back and forth, doing mental math on calculating from the square inches of diaper, clothing, and diaper table now sprayed with poop if that really equals just the four ounces you swear to all that is holy was in the damn bottle.
They poop loudly. Most often if the room is incredibly quiet. Say, for example, church or a quiet restaurant. That sanctity will be completely annihilated by sounds that non-parents will be certain are too big to come from an infant, which will earn you looks of disgust since you will undoubtedly be holding the little bundle of joy. And if you are married to the cop, who knows how mortified you are, he will say something like "OH MY GOD JEN! Don't you DARE blame THAT on the baby!"
They will poop ON you. Often while you are somewhere remote, far away from a change of clothing for yourself despite having forty outfits packed for the little one. You will shift them while holding them JUST enough so that poop will shoot straight out the bottom of where the diaper had previously been snuggly adjusted to skin. You will try to find a way to carry the baby to cover the poop you are now wearing. You will then have to find clothing for both of you to change into. If you are like me you will probably cry, but only the first time. Beyond that you just get too tired to care.
Which is what brings you into and through potty training. Sure, there are accidents. A lot of accidents. If you are my kid you will at least once find a way to get only the toilet paper, which will not have actually been used, into the toilet. This, while managing to poop on the floor, then sit on the floor with unwiped bum to put just your sandles on and run outside to play, bare ass naked from the waist down but for the sandles, and covered in enough poo smears to let me know that I should take at least two shots of something stiff before venturing in the bathroom to clean up.
Now then, did I mention we recently dealt with a bout of stomach flu? Gabriel, our poor little four year old, got it far worse than anyone else in the family. So badly that I actually spent Mother's Day in the emergency room to rule out appendicitis. But it led us back to...that's right, more poop. It involved conversations about how yes, he did need to take medicine, because no, that wasn't just pee...pee doesn't come from there. And after a while, when he got sick of the medicine, it came back to gleeful statements from Gabe like "Mom! MOM!!! I pooped and it was big and hard! No diarrhea poop for me!!!" Which would be fine, except again it tends to be shouted out in restaurants.
And did I mention the travelling? In combination with Gabe's recovery, this is what led him to outing the biker in the next stall at a restaurant bathroom. Because Gabe may have been almost better, but something was not agreeing with that guy, who was in the next stall. But Gabe wasn't risking any more medicine, so every time the guy next to him let go Gabe was sure to yell out to the cop, who was standing outside the stall "that's NOT ME dad!!! I am NOT HAVING that diarrhea poop!" Until eventually the poor biker had to acknowledge it and also announced to the cop "yeah, that was me..."
Last week Gabe ate the tip of his spork on accident during lunch. He was terrified he would live and die with that bad boy inside of him. But his loving teacher assured him he'd poop it out. Which is how we got to me being greeted with "Hey mom, I ate my fork but I'll just poop it out" at pick up time. At this point I've lost almost all humility in this regard. But I decided it was time to tell the boys, AGAIN, that we should probably limit our bathroom talk to when we are in private.
Did I mention the field trip? Because it was to a Science Farm. With about 70 kindergarteners. You know what they have at farms? Animals. You know what they talk about to intrigue 70 kindergarteners? Animal poop. And farting. Gavin looked at me in giddy excitement and I told him to go ahead, talk away. I give up.
So here we are, limited in our company to parents or people who are extremely poo tolerant. Because I can't beat it. And admittedly I now giggle quite a bit about it.
Until next time.
Comments
Post a Comment