I gaped in awe at the fattest turd I have ever seen. Who even did that?? Their poor butt hole, I can’t even fathom how that thing exited the sphincter.
The blob sat at the edge of the hole in the bottom, threatening to plug it up. My eyes were bulging in amazement. I double-gloved my right hand and prepared to snatch that atrocity out of the toilet bowl with a strong plastic bag.
My hand posied above the bowl, I flushed the toilet to make the water level drop and let me have a go at grabbing the poop. Quick as a flash, it swooshed into the hole and visibly clogged it.
I readied the plunger. Floop, floop, floop. Nothing. Flush. Floop, floop, floop.
Still nothing. Floop.
Eons later, I admitted defeat. My pinky was burning. I took off the gloves and discoveres a blister. A stinkin’ toilet plunger pinky blister.
Oyiee. That sucker hurts.
My kids immediately began complaining about hunger pains the second I emerged from the bathroom. Fine. I santized and fought to open a can of refried beans. My hand slipped and sliced pieces of skin from my knuckles.
Bloody beans, anyone?
I simply cannot remember. Did I poop yesterday? Or am I constipated? Umm. I was really busy. Every time I had to go, I remember getting interrupted. I think. Or not. Wouldn’t I be extra gassy?
The short path from the kitchen to the bathroom was an endless loop of obstacles. “MOM! She was looking at me!” Or “My neck is dry. I need water. I need water. Mommy. I need water, Mommy!” What was that blob on the wall? A booger? No one confesses.
Midnight arrived. Kids were in bed. Home lunches prepared, kitchen and living room cleaned, paperwork completed and I took advantage of showering with hot water. (Who likes to shower after water hogs?) Brushed my teeth, quickly decided against worrying about tomorrow’s outfit, and sank into bed.
Shit. I forgot to poop.
Don’t do it. Seriously, just hear me out.
Don’t fart in your thong. Does anyone realize what happens?
The sphincter protrudes against your thong. If you are anywhere near having to poop, say hello to the poop kiss left on your thong.
That is all.
Poking my head around the corner, I sniffed the air a few times. “Oh.” The tendrils of a slightly putrid odor flew up my nostrils.
My feet took me closer to the door and I called out to my 5 year old sitting on the toilet. “Good job!”
I am pretty sure I haven’t had a real poop in ages. I mean, how many parents can really find time to poop in peace?
At bedtime, it can take a gazillion years for them to fall asleep. When they finally shut their darling little eyeballs, I barely function well enough to brush my teeth. So, how could I possibly make it to the bathroom and coax my body to perform on demand? Not me!
You really have to go when your body is ready. Miss that urge and POOF! It will return again the absolute worst time. Standing in the grocery store, having checked off item number three out of twenty. Or driving your kids to practice, without hope of a decent private bathroom for HOURS. Worse, getting caught by another parent when a super strong wave hits: “***poop now-poop NOW – POOP NOWWWWW***.”
I don’t know what happens to anyone else, but I feel my face flush. Not a toilet flush – my face flushes.
My bodily functions are a private matter. But sometimes, I share it with my kids. And they just happen to be young and unaware of the word ‘discretion.’ “Oh, well my mom said she has to poop so we can’t stay.”
Yeah. That happens.
“Tell me you’re coming back!” My sister cried into the phone.
I glanced at the paint tubes strewn everywhere. My girls and nieces were in mid-stroke on my other sister’s walls.
“No…not coming back until later.”
“Ughhhh!” A wail escaped. “He’s pooping!”
My sister has an affliction. She cannot handle poop diapers. Her massive gag reflex could rival a bulimic girl, minus the throw up part. In most cases. And it’s loud.
“Okay.” I asked my other sister if she would mind if I left her with my kids for a bit during the painting project. Of course, she was fine with it.
“Hold on,” I said into the phone. “Be there in ten minutes.”
Her voice whimpered back at me softly. “Thank you.”
Ten minutes later, I dropped my purse on the counter by the door. Pushing my sunglasses to the top of my head, I tied my hair back and spotted my brother relaxing in a chair.
“Hey. Why didn’t you have him change the diaper?”
My sister looked at me like I grew
a tail and stated flatly, “He doesn’t change diapers.”
We had a brief moment of thoughtful silence together, the three of us.
I looked at my nephew, and back at my sister. With his mom at work and his dad deployed, he sure required a lot of team work from us.
“Alright.” I hefted him into my arms. “Let’s go change your poopy diaper.”