Sadly, when you raise a child from the time he or she is a baby, the subject matter of your conversations often revolve around poop.
I wish I could say I was NOT one of those parents, but that I was a cool and hip mom with manicured nails and a regular bridge game where we talked about politics. But alas, I have fallen into the UNcool mom category where I discuss my children’s poop regularly with others.
It starts at the hospital, really. We wait on pins and needles for the icky black tar-like substance to turn creamy and yellowish green. Then when solid foods come we laugh at the whole, undigested raisins that come out and we run into the other room to show the dad how funny the poop looks.
Moms compare notes on pooping schedules. As in, Mine poops every afternoon following her nap, or Mine poops every morning after breakfast. Ruthie usually poops after her coffee kicks in.
Then there’s the toddler phase. Last week Ruthie swallowed a penny, and when it came out the other end we all celebrated and Ruthie told everyone she met that she found a penny in her poop.
Now that I have a boy coming through the ranks of poopdome, I find myself quite tired of poop. Thomas wakes up almost every morning with poop oozing from his diaper and down his leg and up his back. His poop is nasty. I recognize that poop, by definition, is nasty, but Thomas’ poop is DOUBLE DUTCH nasty.
I just want a vacation from poop. That’s all.