And I mean that in the literal sense…poop.
I have just fully realized how much I deal with poop as a mother.
When I was young and thin and dating, my biggest poop-related concern was that my boyfriend never find out that I actually ever pooped. TK told me once many many years ago that he liked living with the idea that pretty girls never had to poop. That was a nice world.
Then comes motherhood, the fear leading up to the delivery of the bundle of joy, and the terror that you might, in the throws of pushing, poop on the delivery table, in front of the doctor and the nurses, and that someone else might have to wipe that up. (I did indeed poop on the table, and was so horrified when I realized it happened, I looked to TK who summed it up perfectly: "Aw, poop shmoop. Who cares! You’re doing great!" love him.)
Then the newborn days when we would spend long minutes examining the poop in the baby’s diaper…attempting to categorize it. Is it seedy? Mustardy? Frothy? Those were dark days.
Then we’re in the swing of things for a bit, thanks to papmers, before potty training. And we’re talking about poop all the time. "Do you need to poop? Did you poop in your pants? Do you want to try to poop? Poop poop poopie poop?"
Then they finally poop on the potty. We rewarded Sam with a huge green dinosaur for his first poop on the potty. I wish someone would get ME presents when I do it. "Honey! I pooped on the potty! Can I have a new Vera Bradley?"
So there I was yesterday, singing the poo-poo on the pot-TEE song to Jane, and carrying the little potty bowl parade-style to the bathroom so she could flush it down herself. We followed Sam’s usual nightly ritual of going to poop on the potty before bed, him HOLLERING that he needs privacy, then wanting me to come in, marvel at the poop, and wipe his butt. I try to explain that this greatly contradicts his NEED for privacy, but I am not sure it is sinking in. As I am putting the girl to bed, I realize with a horrible shock that one of the dogs has diarrhea, the evidence all over the rug. A couple of well placed curse words later and I am scrubbing poop out of the rug. Aaaaaaah. This is the life.
The sheer quantity of poop that mothers have to deal with is one of those secrets that nobody tells you BEFORE you have kids. Like hemorrhoids, or how your boobs are never the same, or that one more Barney song will make you want to put lit cigarettes out in your eyes.
But I will carry on, as all mothers do, cheering for it, asking about it, wiping it, flushing it. It’s my life, after all. My crazy wonderful poop-filled life.