Poop

Those of you who are determined to stay clean-minded, read no further.

I, too, had the desire. However, motherhood has wiped that wish right away. You see, life as a parent is full of poop. It comes in so many forms: little mustard seed poop from breast-fed babies, nasty "what in the world did he eat" diapers, little rose-bud mouths blurting out "Poop" in the middle of church, panicked shouts of "I have to go poopy, NOW!". I can't forget dirtied underwear from potty-training, jokes featuring bowel-movements and sounds, and tales of scraping out you-know-what from beneath a daughter's fingernails.

The thing is, I don't like poop. I don't even find it at all humorous. Bathroom jokes are lost on me; when my children blurt out inappropriate "potty" words just for the fun of it, they are sent to sit in the bathroom. I would like to forget that anyone even has a need for toilets. So, why a post on poop? Well, I am SICK of it! Maybe if I air out all of my grievances, they will be alleviated. It seems that poop has been one of my plagues in mother-ness!

I would have to claim my oldest set the course, with splattering yellow substance all over my white shirt minutes prior to our leaving for church, and it has been downhill from there. You see, it seems Josiah has some kind of bowel issue. We have been seeing a GI specialist for awhile now, in the attempt to figure out what is going on. Poor boy, I am truly sorry for him. It isn't easy to have to freeze, clench your bottom, wait a second to get control, then run straight for the bathroom. We probably should have recognized there was an issue when as a 3 year old we were visiting OSU campus feeding ducks at Theta Pond, Jos told us he needed to go to the bathroom. Immediately handing the bread over to Auntie Steph, he and I hightailed it across the park to the nearest building...too far away. As we walked/ran, I became aware of little plops occurring in time with wails from Jos (being so scrawny, things simply fell out of his not-so-tightie-whities and shorts). Yep, my son's poop was spotting the sidewalk.

Since then, mother-hood has hurled all kinds of poop at me. I. Am. Tired. Of. It. This past month has given me waaaay too much interaction with the substance. Gavin had weeks of upset stomach and digestive tract. The doctor ordered a stool sample. Yep, the collector was me. Unfortunately, I had to sacrifice a small Tupperware for the collection. There was NO way I was holding that little cup under my son's rear. The nurse neglected to give me a collection hat. Lovely.

A few days later I took the kiddies with me to Chik-Filet for family night with some friends. Emme decided to dirty her diaper. I had decided to be a neglectful mother and not pack diapers. I carried her out to the car on my hip...hmmm, after buckling her in I realized I still smelled poop. Huh, two lovely sh-mears of brown substance gleamed against my white shirt. Obviously a visit to Target was out. No getting out of a run to Wal-mart, though. I needed to pick up a laxative and intensive bowel cleanser for Josiah per doc's orders (am I seeing a pattern here?). I slipped my brown sling on (anyone noticing brown with think they just caught a glimpse of a piece of the sling, right?) and squished stinky bum into it. I would like to claim that was the end of the embarrassments due me, but it wasn't. Emme went on to pee down my leg into my shoe (did you know full diapers simply can't hold ANY more?) and left a lovely puddle on the floor. A little old lady was tottering around and I had images of her slipping in my daughter's pee puddle, falling and breaking a hip. As serenely as I could around teeth clenched in mortification (Josiah in the background bellowing "Stand back everyone, this is my little sister's pee!"), I begged paper towels from the pharmacist and swiped it up. I think I set the record on self-checkout that evening.

The following Monday I set off to pick up flowers to plant. We tackled Home Depot and just as we are checking out in the outside garden center, Gunnison tells me he needs to go to the bathroom. Since he has been potty-trained, I have realized Gunner can wait a bit before the needs become accidents. So, I ask if he can wait until we get across the street to Lowes. He agrees and we set off. We enter in the front garden center and start looking at the clearance racks of flowers. Gunner and Gavin start playing spies and dart in and out of the surrounding shelves. I ask Gun if he was still ok. "Yep!" Keeping one eye on them and the other on the fabulous finds for 75% off!!, I fill up my cart and call for the boys to head with me inside. From across the aisle comes the wail, "Oh! I've got to go poopy, now!!" Oh no, I should have seen this coming. Spy wars only distract until the need becomes incessant. At a near run, we take off for the restrooms-that are far across the store and in the back. Of course. As we rush, I notice a wafting smell reaching my nose. Poor little Gunner starts to cry. Those underwear went right into the garbage, wrapped up in a bazillion paper towels. Thank heavens I remembered wet-wipes.

Poop is so un-kosher. Who likes to show up at playgroup and start a conversation with, "You should have seen the bm my son made today. Doc is having us keep track of when, how much and description!" Uh, no. Poop is the lurking monster under the bed. We can laugh about it every now and then, but how many fearful mommies out there have just thrown the underwear away to be rid of it? Who else is tired of doing laundry with a faint aroma of a not-so-pleasant truck stop?

Poop. I'm tired of it.