Tag Archives: poop

Full Time Day One

Of course, I woke up with a sore throat. My morning voice sounds like Kathleen Turner in Jewel of the Nile, but the cough? Way less sexy.

My small boy woke up on the wrong side of his big boy bed, and insisted he would get dressed at Betty’s house. So off we went, we driving in the rain to music like the soundtrack to a film Wes Anderson hasn’t made yet.

October has come in with a vengeance – wind, rain, and cold. I’m thrilled! I love when the darkness comes earlier. Cold and darkness don’t frighten me. On the contrary, they draw out my best instincts. They ignite my great passions, words, food, music. My creative energy is always higher in the dormant half of the year.

All I have to do now is harness enough physical and mental energy to be creative.

Despite being stuck inside while the wind gusted and the rain fell, the day passed uneventfully, which was blessing. It has been a long time since I’ve had a ten hour workday.

Of course, uneventfully meant two poop accidents, one swiftly delivered time out over slapping, and the baby not napping more than twenty minutes at a time, each of the three times he was put down. Parenting, even (especially?) for those of us in loco parentis, is always eventful.

Beautiful Poop

Ah, the poop.

And its journey to the potty.

Full of trials, tribulations, and sometimes successes.

After which? My small boy hops off the toilet, accepts my effusive praise at his elimination efforts, and gestures grandly at the evidence in the bowl.

His face is earnest, his voice sweet as he says, “And you can flush away my byoo-a-ful poop.”

Some Flaws I’m Working On

I don’t even like the goddamn lobsters.

Okay, that’s overstating it. I like lobster, but I generally find crustaceans to be more work than they’re worth.

But Mark does. So when he suggests he go up to the market and get a couple of chicken lobsters to steam for dinner, I agree. If he goes to the market, he will come home with ice cream. Ice cream is always worth the work.

Of course, I am the one scrubbing the beery sludge off the bottom of the lobster pot the next morning. I am choosing to be passive-aggressive about this. It’s a flaw. I’m working on it.

We’re potty training here this fine weekend, which is taxing business. I’m not going to turn this place into a dumping ground for my preschooler poop, but suffice it to say? I am tired of locking horns with The Most Willful Two and Three Quarters Year Old In the History of Ever. Happy Labor Day.

The laundry is endless. Pairs and pairs of tiny Buzz Lightyear briefs.

Two mornings in a row it has been my job to deal with our little bundle of joy, who, for all his clever songs about goats and lovely sweet hugs and kisses, is not always a morning person. This morning, it was just a little chilly in our room, and the down comforter was perfect the way it sometimes is. Lightly molded to my skin, warm without being stifling. The chilly side of the pillow under my sleepy cheek. One foot peeking out from the hem of the covers to test the morning air. Getting out of bed, finding pajamas, reprimanding a cranky little boy for trashing his train set in a fit of pique? Not on my agenda.

And now, because I said I would, I have to bake a batch of muffins.

And wash out the steamer basket for the lobster pot.

And shake off the crabby mood in which I’ve wrapped myself, because the weather is beautiful, I’m not at work, and there’s fresh pee in the potty.

Remember When We Cut Felix Out of His Shirt?

**If baby poo and dirty diapers ain’t yo’ thang, just skip to the gardening posts, or the cupcakes. Trust me.**

It’s a question Big Brother J has been known to ask me from time to time.

When first-time Mom I follow on Twitter announced her first diaper blow-out, I immediately thought of the worst diaper fail I ever dealt with. Poop everywhere, trying to extricate a wiggly baby from clothing that had become a cotton slip-and-slide of ick. After surviving three babies, I was no stranger to–neither was I afraid of– blow-outs, or poop-explosions, as the kids called them.

This diaper? This one was a doozy.

And this doozy? The work of my son, my fourth baby. Of course. He wasn’t very big, but I was back at work with him, and he was in the bouncy seat in the living room with the big kids. J and O were playing MarioKart on the Wii, I was making dinner, and Miss E was reading on the couch. Homework was done, all was well with the world.

When dinner was safely in the oven, I went in to check on the kids, and Felix seemed agitated.

I bent down over his bouncy seat and OOF! the smell wafting up from the child was unholy!

I pulled him up out of the seat to reveal a poop smear on the seat itself. Ugh. I opened up his tiny romper to reveal his onesie, with exploded baby poo up the back, up the front, and down both legs. It. was. epic.

Miss E, who is very girly, and averse to super smelly, gross things, hightailed it to her room, groaning in disgust all the way up stairs and down the hall. O was, as usual, unphased. Big Brother J, who had a nine year old boy’s enthusiasm for all things eew, hung around.

Good thing. Since I drafted him into service.

I sat there, with my poop covered baby on his changing mat HAZMAT site, wondering just how I was going to get him out of it without ending up with poop on his face, in his hands, in his hair? I said, mostly kidding, to Big Brother J, “We’ll just have to cut him out.”

J lit up like Christmas! He was gone in a flash. He returned with the purple handled safety scissors from the craft box. The gleam in his eyes was positively joyous.

He handed me the scissors with a flourish.

And I did it. I cut the shirt off of him. J looked on, laughing like a loon, but kind of impressed with me. The whole incident was worth it just for those few giddy moments J and I were co-conspirators. I also have to admit, it was kind of liberating to just peel the destroyed onesie off, with no regard for thrift. I had J bring me some old plastic grocery bags for the trashed shirt, and managed to get Felix out of the bottom half of the onesie with relatively little drama, given the vast tracts of poo.

With the seat cover and the romper in a hot water laundry cycle, we sat down to dinner. When the Bosses came home, J gleefully related the tale, with special emphasis on his participation. Lots of giggling all around. Poop is pretty funny, when you get right down to it.

Yes, J, I do remember when we cut Felix out of his shirt.