Before I had children, poop was not a big concern of mine. Of course, I tried to avoid stepping in it when irresponsible pet owners failed to scoop, but other than that, poop was something that happened in private.
Now, I’m bombarded with poop discussions on a daily basis.
“Daddy! I have to go poop.”
“Daddy! Ginger is eating her poop.”
“Daddy! X pooped in his diaper.”
Not only must I discuss poop, but I must also handle and dispose of it thanks to the aforementioned X.
One day, my wife, KayEm, and my daughter, Nee, were out shopping while the two boys, N and X were watching Power Rangers. I took this opportunity to relax in my bedroom and read a magazine (one actually made from paper).
I had barely opened the magazine when X walked into the bedroom with a mischievous look on his face.
“Daddy,” he said. “Poopy on finger.”
“What?” I asked.
“Poopy on finger,” he repeated. “See.” He shoved his finger in my face.
“Ahhh,” I screamed as I recoiled into the pillows “How did you get poop on your finger?”
“Me poopy,” he said smiling.
“Don’t touch anything,” I said as I jumped out of bed and grabbed X to carry him upstairs to his changing station. When I reached the staircase, a terrible thought crossed my mind: what if he’s already smeared poop throughout the house? KayEm would be quite upset if she discovered poop on our new furniture.
I continued upstairs and decided to do a thorough poop inspection after I cleaned up the toddler.
Upstairs, I placed X on the changing pad and proceeded to counsel him.
“Don’t stick your fingers in your diaper after you poop,” I said. “In fact, keep your hands out of your diaper at all times.”
“Okay, Daddy,” he said.
I gave him a kiss on the cheek and proceeded to change his diaper. As I worked, I noticed a brown speck on his face. Upon further inspection, I discovered it was poop. My mind raced. Was that the cheek I had just kissed? I couldn’t remember. I quickly cleaned X’s face, finished changing his diaper, and I ran downstairs to rinse my mouth with Listerine.
After I was sufficiently disinfected, I commenced my poop inspection. I plopped down on the carpet and started sniffing around like a hound dog. N looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
“Daddy,” he said. “Why are you sniffing everything?”
“I’m looking for poop,” I replied.
“You said poop,” he said laughing hysterically.
After a few minutes on my hands and knees, I felt confident that the furniture, walls and floors were poop-free.
When KayEm and Nee returned home, she asked, “How’d it go with you and the boys?”
I thought about telling her the truth, but I didn’t want to trigger my PTSD (poop traumatic stress disorder). Instead I said, “Everything was fine,” and walked back into my bedroom to finish my magazine.