Poop. All day long I am dealing with other people’s poop. I don’t mean people that are difficult or annoying, nor am I substituting “poop” for its inappropriate counterparts. I literally mean…well, we’ll call it the big Number 2.
You are instructed to pay close attention from the beginning of your parenting journey when they give you a chart to record the contents of every diaper. We were still in the hospital with our first little angel when she had one of the infamous black tar looking poops. We promptly buzzed the nurse and told her about the dirty diaper. “Uh, then you can change it,” she replied. Insert reality check here. We were the parents, and the poop was ours alone.
I really can’t remember what it was like to not have my day revolve around another person’s bowel movements. In a home with three children 6 and under someone is always pooping. My six year will yell through the house, “Mom I don’t have any toilet paper!” I can tell you that this is progress from the days when we she would tell me, “I can’t wipe my bottom, because I will get my pretty little thumb dirty.” We couldn’t have that, now could we? My five year old is kind enough to always alert me when he deems his poop to be juicy, so that I can do the wiping.
“Did you poop in your diaper,” I ask my two year old. “No,” he replies stink wafting my way as he runs to hide. On several occasions I have simultaneously taken care of all three little bums. I calculated once that I have changed around 18,000 diapers in the past 6 years. I wonder how many pounds of poop that would be? I don’t think I want to know the answer.
In your pre-parent days the thought of any kind of poop touching you anywhere is revolting. The first time you get the exploding out of the back of the diaper variety all over you, you do want to run screaming, but your mommy instincts are stronger and you do what needs to be done. I am so de-sensitized that I stepped on a pile of soggy dog poop in the yard with my barefoot and I didn’t even flinch. I do feel a little bit of pride in my ability to handle all sorts of bodily fluids with Navy Seal like execution.
I understand that the daily wiping of multiple bottoms is just one of many phases of parenthood. When I am faced with three hormonal teenagers I am quite certain I will long for the days when poop was my biggest issue. Broken hearts, hurt feelings, and bruised egos will not be so easy to wipe away.
So, right now I’m okay with a poop filled life. Poop means that their hands are still smaller than mine, that they give kisses freely and often, that an airplane in the sky is something to squeal about every time, and that I am always where they turn when they need some help.
