The other day I walked through our breezeway after a couple days of travel to find my husband cooking something yummy on the grill outside. A few of the kids were all hanging out watching him. It was a really nice scene to come home to so I grabbed a beer out of the garage fridge intending to sit on the back steps and join the fun of watching Grant cook. Until I saw that there were crusty brown streaks across the bottom concrete step.
“Wait! Is that poop?” I asked, catching myself before I sat down.
“Yeah. David fessed up to stepping in dog poop. We were just talking about where might be a better place than the back steps to scrape it off your shoes.”
“Is anyone intending to clean it up?”
“Well, we were talking about that too. It probably should dry first. We don’t want to gross up the broom.”
I stepped over the bottom step and just went inside. Sometimes things look funner than they really are.
You all DO know that I KNOW that funner isn’t a word right? I mean actually, I think it IS, because I use it all the time. Who actually gets to decide what is a word and what’s not? I want THAT job! Seriously. It sounds way funner than selling carpet or writing about poop.
Anyhoo. I am writing this poop post for Marie R. It was her suggestion for a blog post topic. Also, because I am a poop expert. I have quite a few friends who are either about to have a baby or are right in the peak of what I like to call the ‘poop years’ and I need them to all know: I understand; I empathize; I have been there; and I lived. You will too. Though of course the more children you have, the longer it takes to get past the poop years. Growing six children? Well it’s pretty much just a shitty job. I mean that literally, not metaphorically. I mostly have enjoyed all the other stuff. A metaphor for my life would be more like: I helped grow a bunch of smart ass monkeys. It’s all fun and games until someone starts throwing their poop at you.
Poop was kind of endearing with our first baby. We actually have a picture of the first fecal matter I got on me. Duncan was two days old and I thought it was so cute, that little mustardy turd all over my white sweater, me smiling proudly. That fun little game lost its glamour in about 4 days.
Enter sixth born child Mitchel who at 9 months old learned to take off his clothes, including his diaper, if he was unattended for longer than 4 seconds. We got wise to him and learned to dress him with duct tape AFTER that terrible day when he discovered poop painting. I remember Grant screaming like someone had died and I came running to the source of the scream, Mitchel’s room, and just stood there in shock. “Wait, is that poop?” The grinning baby’s naked body, the crib and an entire wall, two and a half feet up from the entire length of the crib was coated with something very, very horrifying.
Grant looked at me like I was some kind of moron. “No dummy, it’s chocolate.”
“Oh thank God. Chocolate should be easy for you to clean up.” And I turned around and left.
And drove away.
It’s for sure not one of my prouder moments. Clearly I eventually went home. By then Grant had gotten the first layer off the walls and crib and had little Satan hosed down. I was the detail and disinfect crew. But he didn’t talk to me for a day or two. I don’t blame him. Good mothers don’t run away from poop.
I was just so tired of it: wiping up poop. Scooping poop and babies out of the tub so we could bleach it and start all over. Begging those little people to poop in the potty. I actually chased Dillin around with my coffee cup because he would not sit still long enough on the potty. Apparently he had more interesting things to do. (Like pull his pants down and poop in the corner of his bedroom.) I caught it buy the way. The poop. There wasn’t actually coffee in the cup at the time. I drank it all waiting for him to take a dump. It’s a shame about that cup though. It was my favorite. But I couldn’t drink from it after that incident. Shit just got in my head.
Then when one kid would finally poop in the potty we would have to wipe their little tushies for another year. It was either that or have poop streaks across the toilet seat when YOU had to go. Grant and I can still hear the echo of Daniel “Mom…Dad…come wipe my butt.” Maria says she has memories of wiping little boy butts too. I feel bad about that. Kind of. Especially because I think she potty trained herself at nine months. She was in it for the frilly big girl panties. I should be nicer to her.
Road trips were spectacular during the poop years, which lasted about fifteen years for us. The poop years, not the road trip. Though some of them felt that long. Somebody ALWAYS had diarrhea, usually whoever was the baby at the time. Rarely does one discover the baby has diarrhea until it has moved all the way up the baby’s back and saturated the car seat and erupted into the air like a slap in the face which would often cause a chain reaction of vomiting and mass hysteria. I can remember being shocked the first time we took a road trip without diapers, wipes, barf bowls and Clorox wipes. Who knew you could get places so quickly?!?
I thought things would be less poopy once they were all potty trained but it’s still a central theme in our household.
“When was the last time someone picked up dog poop?”
“The dog got into the cat litter box again!”
“Sweet! Does that mean I don’t have to scoop poop today?”
Even at the dinner table it’s talked about. Except when there are guests. Girlfriends apparently don’t count as guests and I think are judged by their ability to tell a good poop story. (Am I right Maggie?)
Red licorice caused a couple of the kids to think they were dying. The older ones shaking their wise heads “Dude, that happened to me too. Frightening!”
If someone wants to try and get out of something: “I have to poop first” is often a tactic.
And when someone isn’t feeling well, the first question: “When was the last time you pooped?”
It’s very seldom that I can get ready in the morning without someone needing the bathroom. The only one I DON’T leave the bathroom for is Mitchel. I still have poop painting resentment in me. Plus he enjoys seeing how long I can hold my breath.
I can’t hold my breath long enough for the others. Especially Mr. “I Can’t Take a Shower Until I’ve Had My Two Hour Morning Dump” Siwinski.
But I think I am on to him because sometimes I SAY I am pooping when really what I am doing is reading quietly in the only room in our house that has a locking door. It’s nice there. When people aren’t banging to get in.
This is not actually poop. But I thought it was when I was vacuuming the basement. It’s actually a toy dragon. But you can SEE how I might be a little paranoid right? Plus I wasn’t wearing my glasses.