I feel like no one really told us the truth about parenting. None of the things I read and people I talked to told us what it’s all about: shit. I mean that, literally. Feces. Poop. Crap. Stool. Bowel movements. Whatever you want to call it. Parenthood revolves around what comes out (or, in my son’s case, what doesn’t come out) of their buttholes.
In the first few days and weeks of life, your whole existence revolves around logging your children’s poop: color, consistency, and frequency. My husband and I often have conversations over our morning coffee that begin with things like “Man, he’s gotta shit” or “I can’t believe she shit all over the wall.” Our family photo albums consist of iconic photos of shit splattered along the walls or poop explosions.
One day, I can’t wait to tell my children about the chronicles of their poop. Each of them with their own iconic tales of a shit storm.
This post’s focus will be my daughter. I swear I should have my daughter tested to see if she’s a baby genius. Every parent I have ever talked to doesn’t have this problem, but we apparently hit the poopy pants jackpot. Around a year old, I think (having a baby wipes out any ability to move short-term memory to long-term), my daughter started figuring out how to unzip her onesie pajamas. It was never an issue, as we always managed to get to her quickly in the morning before she did any damage. One morning, I was home alone, my husband was in Chicago for a family emergency, and my mom, my daughter’s daytime caregiver, was running late. My work day starts at 7:20 AM as a high school teacher, so I needed to call the office to tell them to get someone to cover my class. It’s 6:30, and I check on Aria on the monitor. She’s up and just playing with her books (YES, PARENTING WIN!), so I call the main office. Naturally, no one picks up (because why would they answer the phone). I scramble for the next twenty minutes to find someone to get ahold of in the building. By the time I had figured it all out, it was 7:35; Aria was still quietly playing in her room.
I think this is a mom win.
I am mistaken.
I head in to see her (this is by far my favorite part of parenthood…the morning wake-ups). She’s all smiley and happy as she typically is when woken up in the morning. I notice her pajama is unzipped. “No big deal,” I thought. Her diaper is still on.
Upon closer inspection, her diaper seemed a little…off. I pick her up and notice lumpy contents in the feet areas of her pajamas. “What could that be?” Well, shit. It was shit. Little lumpy shit. Oh, shit! I take her to the changing table to change her immediately. I’m so thankful it just fell in her pajamas, and nothing worse happened.
As I’m changing her and she’s babbling away, she says, “mama,” and I finally look up from the poop disaster, only to notice that she’s got some poop in her hands! “WHERE ELSE COULD IT BE?!” So I begin psychotically searching her hair, nails, face, back, front, side, mouth, you name it. Finally, I decided I’ll have to give her a bath at 7:30 am. Oh well.
After I have her in my arms on the way to the bath, I pass her crib. Her white crib. Well, I should probably say her formerly white crib. The whole time I thought she was quietly reading her books, she was actually painting a Poop Picasso on her crib railings. Then I inspect further. There are little shit droplets all over her sheets. The little shit!
I just burst out laughing. What else am I supposed to do? My toddler has taken a genuine interest in shitty art. Maybe one day, it’ll pay off. Until then, I’ll live every day in fear of what shit is coming next.
Welcome to REAL parenthood: where shit happens.
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