Monday, January 27, 2014

Poopocalyspe

As parents, we are obsessed with poop.  I will talk to anyone, from strangers to librarians
 about my child's poop.  I will even discuss my own when prompted.  I can't help it.  When Bean was a newborn, I actually had a poop diary where I chronicled her fecal matter, amounts and times.  Let me say that again, I actually wrote down descriptions and times of my child's poop which I would later pull out to discuss with her doctor or other moms.  I think I also took pictures of questionable poop.  Pictures of poop.  Let me say that again; pictures of poop.  

I'm not alone though.  Most moms I know all have a poop story and we trade them like kids used to trade baseball cards.  Well, this is my poop story du jour.  

I have a special poop pail, which prior to today, I loved and adored and would easily recommend to any new mom.  The pail actually contains the hideous smells of my child's fecal matter which really is amazing considering that I need a gas mask on some days just to change HT's diapers.  Anyway, on this particular day, the bag was very full and I removed it and tied a knot and left the poop bag by the stairs to be taken down later.  So far, all is quiet on the western front.  Both kids were happy.  I actually showered.  The beds were made.  This was a good day.  Bean started bouncing on the poop bag, literally.  She was sitting on the bag and pretended it was a trampoline squishing the contents of the poop bag with each up and down motion of her little rear end.  She finally got off and I forget about the bag.  It was still sitting at the top of the stairs (still not smelling).  We played a bit, read some books and got HT in her crib for a nap and I snuck downstairs to throw out the poop bag.

Two steps down stairs, the entire bag becomes untied (probably from the pressure of Bean's bouncing bottom) and a week's worth of poop diapers cascaded down the stairs.  I'm left holding up an empty sack muttering nonsensical words because I want to scream "Shit!" but I'm acutely aware of how much Bean repeats things so I can't have the satisfaction of screaming "Fuck!" or "Shit! at the top of lungs.  Instead, I shouted the neutered "Fudge!" which is both appropriate and not helpful with my mental state in the slightest.  I then tried frantically to pick up the diapers with my hands and to shove them back in my now broken bag.   Then, I'm befuddled at the bottom of the stairs trying to figure out how to clean this mess up when Bean carefully walks down on the other side of the step, consoling her distraught mom.  Bean returned with a broom offering her cleaning services.  I'm struck by her instant helpfulness and I see now, that this isn't a tragedy.  It's just another poop story to share with moms (or in my journal). 

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