Hello Thursday! Meet my blog group, comprised of a fantastic group of ladies who will dazzle you with insight on various topics. After reading my post, check out their blogs as well. Just click on:
Froggie (Tracey): One frog’s distinct voice on the world around her.
Merry Land Girl (Melissa): Tales of a suburban mom who likes to talk about pop culture, books, Judaism, family, friendship and anything else that comes to mind.
Darwin Shrugged (Denise): Civilized Observations in an Uncivilized World
I wanted to go with a topic that wasn’t entirely thought-provoking or would cause me undue stress this week, considering the constant state of turmoil I feel I’m in lately. This brings me to this week’s topic. Poop.
Melissa and I chat frequently via e-mail and Facebook. We’ll share our anecdotal experiences with one another, you know, the ones you wouldn’t ordinarily share with other people who aren’t dealing with the same life experiences. Our last born children are mere months apart. Suffice to say, we’re both treading ill-begotten waters that are often filled with proverbial feces.
Wow, that sounds pretty gross.
The poop idea was suddenly born. Why not write about these ill-begotten experiences? Why not pave the way for silly bathroom humor?
The little guy used to have what he referred to as, “the poop spot”. When he said it, though, it sounded like “the poop pot”. It was one of those Black and Decker tool benches, filled to the brim with random plastic tools and fake wood and studs and nails.
He’d stand behind it, pull-up on and engaged for fillage, pooping to his heart’s delight while I would pull my hair out in frustration and annoyance. It wasn’t as though he had never pooped on the potty before. Of course he had. He peed pretty regularly into it, too. He’d managed to find a way to maximize his play time while taking a brief moment to defecate. How could I get angry with that? He seemed to master the concept of time management!
You’re probably thinking: “Why didn’t you just remove that dang blasted pull up? Obviously he’s pooping in it, because you’re allowing him to poop in it.” Yes. I thought of that. I figured I was one step ahead when I started making the little guy wear big boy undies for the majority of the day, limiting his pull-up time to nap time, or bed time. See, he wasn’t totally out of the woods yet with having accidents while sleeping; he was only 3 at the time.
Turns out, he was one step ahead of me. He was no dummy, that kid. He knew where the pull ups were, and while I wasn’t looking, or taking care of one of the many tasks I seem to acquire throughout the day, he would nimbly remove his underwear, replace them with a fresh pull-up, run to his tool bench and hide behind it, quietly doing the job while I was none the wiser!
I hid the pull-ups. He’d find them. I put them up where he couldn’t reach them, then he’d merely wait it out until I put a pull-up on him for his nap time or bed time. He almost always left a present for me.
I thought for sure my kid would be in a diaper through high school, at this point. He’d pee in toilets but poop in Depends. We went so far as to remove the tool bench and hide it away, which threw him off the trail temporarily, but he started looking for other places to hide his shame; under the kitchen table or behind the book shelf.
Then, my husband shared this video with our son, and our whole world changed.
I never really bought into potty training videos and books. It never worked on my eldest son. But then again, I wasn’t the one who potty trained him. I owe that to my Brazilian friend who cracked the whip and got him trained by the age of 3. I never thought my little guy would think twice about some minute and a half video with cute cherubic 2-year olds sitting around and making interesting “poop” faces.
Only, it did. It totally, totally did! The next day, I heard those words every mother wants to hear from her potty-training child:
“Mommy, come wipe my butt!”
He was 3 1/2 years old, and from that day on he pooped in the potty. That moment felt like the best day of my life. I squealed. I jumped up and down in sublime joy, I kept high-fiving him while he watched on with mild amusement. I don’t think he understood why I was acting all nutty and bizarre. He just wanted his butt wiped.
For many months after that fateful day, he’d sing the poop song while re-enacting it. He’d follow the simple directions, making sure I’d wipe his bum until “brown left town”, as the lyrics go. Afterwards, we’d make sure to wash his hands, and then he’d start dancing around, just like the little kids do in the video. This was important work for my little guy, and I’d encourage it.
He doesn’t sing the song anymore, now that he’s 4. I guess he’s too mature now, or something. And while he still requests that I assist him in his toilet training, he hates having to make a pit stop and hates washing his hands even more. It’s become too taxing for him, but I make him do it, anyway.
On a related note, I saw this image yesterday on Facebook and felt an instant connection with it. It also fits in well with today’s theme.
I went on a long run the other day, reminded of the time a good friend of mine and the best running partner I’ve ever had to date (aside from my husband; we make a pretty good team, too) and I were on a run together on the Papio trail. She’d injured her baby toe. Hell, I think we’d come to the conclusion that she’d actually broken the poor thing, but she was tough and ran on it anyway.
While that was going on, I felt what Pooh would describe as a “rumblin’ in my tummy”. This isn’t a rare occurrence in the running world. And sometimes, you take all the precautions you can to ensure poop won’t happen, but it doesn’t matter. The poop is gonna get you, and where there’s a turtle head pokin’, look out.
I had to poop. My friend’s toe hurt. She said the pain was manageable if we kept on running, but the more we ran, the more I had to go. We were at least a few miles out from our parked cars. The Papio trail doesn’t offer port-a-potties, no secluded areas hidden by trees, no rest areas. So, we took turns, shifting between running to relieve her foot, and walking so I wouldn’t poop my pants.
I found us to be in an extremely comical situation. When we’d walk, she hobbled and cursed out loud. When we’d run, I’d pray that I wouldn’t have a moment similar to this one:
In the end, we made it just fine and lived to laugh about it, giving us a moment we’ll never forget.
What are some of your poop horror stories, if you dare to share?