The Case of the Missing Poop

I read a friend's blog about an adventurous evening trying to bathe both of her children which, unfortunately for her, involved poop. The story inspired me and I began to recall some of my own humorous poop stories. I don’t know a mother alive (or dead) who doesn’t have their share of poop stories.

There was the time when Rhys was about 3 ½ when we were over at a friend's house/farm. They went out to check on the horses in the barn. Rhys had to go so he dropped his drawers and pooped right there in the middle of the barn. In three year old reasoning, the barn was where poop belonged and he had to go. I think, frankly, that when you’re three and you have to go, that poop really belongs anywhere – even on the front porch. (Quinn left me that present when he was three.)

Of course, this same house was also where Rhys’ education was displayed as woefully inadequate, according to our friend, Trent. Trent had just finished breeding two of his border collies and was placing each of them in their own kennel. Rhys asked Trent why he was putting the dogs away. Trent said, “They were just bred.” Rhys asked, “Why do they want bread?” Bread has so many more meanings when you are living on a farm then living in a small lot in town where the only breeding is done by snails (and parents, but generally after dark when little children are unaware that anyone would need bread.) But I digress; this is about poop.

Quinn had the happy fortune of being my bath pooper. I remember as a child one of my small cousins (I imagine around three; that seems to be a magical age for poop discoveries) pooped in the bathtub and ensuing chaos (and laughter by those of us uninvolved). I remember being appalled and so grateful that I was not the one who had to clean it up. How would you get poop out of the tub without touching it? Eeew…yuck! Then I had Quinn. It seems that the warm water would relax his bowels and he would poop. It was just an occurrence the first time (Rhys had done it once or twice), frustrating the second, hair pulling the third and eventually all baths were banned for Quinn at a relatively young age (2). (Incidentally, I learned that you can’t get poop out of the tub without touching it as the amount of water involved means that toilet paper melts into little more than white ooze, really, just poop in an earlier stage.) After months and months of showers I decided the boys should have a bath as a treat. Into the tub they went. They were playing with their toys. All was well. I walked away for a brief moment. I left happy boys and returned to hollering. Quinn had pooped. I whipped them out, scoured the tub and disinfected the toys. I figured since the pooping had occurred that we were safe and as the boys still needed a good cleaning, I ran another bath I placed both boys in it, scrubbed them clean and let them play. It was then I learned that it is indeed possible to receive the same gift twice in one night. That was the end of baths for Quinn for the next year.

I currently babysit a little boy by the name of Jeremiah. He was four at the time of this event (about a month ago). Now Jeremiah is a bit of a picky eater. Not quite as bad as Quinn but certainly not the easy going, I’ll-try-anything eater that Rhys and Emmalouise are. Jeremiah, however, loves fruit. During the summer I have scads of fruit from our trees, my in-laws trees, my neighbors’ trees, fruit I have bought at the store and fruit I have bought from the Funny Farm. This time in particular I had a lot of pears, peaches and plums. The magic p’s. One early afternoon Jeremiah had to go poop. He went to the bathroom and did his thing. As a side, Jeremiah is a bit like an old man. He will sit there, elbows on knees and face in hands, for hours. At least it seems that long when you only have one bathroom and someone else is waiting to use it. (Other people dream of homes with a bedroom for every child, a man cave for the man, a media room and a sewing/scrapbook room for the woman; I dream of two bathrooms.) Anyway, the point is, he takes his time and ensures that everything is eliminated. He finished, I cleaned him up and he went on his way to play. A few minutes later he comes tearing into the house. “I have to go poop again,” he yells on the way to the toilet. I go to check on him and he is back to doing his thing. “Cool,” I think, “He’s self-managing the toilet thing and I will have less messes to clean up.” I clean him up and start to help him pull up his underwear. “No,” he hollers, “there’s poop in there.” I look down. Sure enough, the fruit eating had its consequences and his underwear, as well as the toilet, was full of the soft brown stuff. We carefully removed the pants and underwear so as to avoid streaks down the legs or smooshes on the feet or plops onto the floor. As I’m rinsing everything out and cleaning up Jeremiah, Lulu comes running in. “I have to use the potty.” “Well, darling,” I say, “you’re going to have to wait a few minutes.” (Again with the dreaming about two bathrooms.) She runs back outside and I figure that she probably doesn’t really have to go and has distracted herself with outdoor play. Next thing I know Rhys and Quinn are running in to tell me that Lulu is now pooping in the front yard. I’m still up to my elbows in Jeremiah poop and have no energy or patience to deal with Lulu poop. By the time I finish in the bathroom, Lulu is done and her pile is lying neatly in the front yard. And I am done dealing with poop. The dog poops outside and it sits; Lulu’s poop can sit.

Fast forward to the next afternoon. The boys are responsible for picking up Carbon’s poop on a daily basis. Done everyday, it is a fairly easy, while admittedly unpleasant, chore. Today is Quinn’s day and he immediately begins to protest, “I don’t want to pick up Lulu’s poop.” Oh yeah. I forgot that was out there. “Well,” I say, “it’s just poop, just like Carbon’s poop. Just scoop it up and dump in the garbage bag and throw it away.” Quinn sucks up his courage and leaves to go and do. What a good kid! He walks back in the door, “Mom, Lulu’s poop is gone!” Sure enough, no pile. “The flies must have eaten it,” says Quinn. Not likely. What happened to the poop? “Or Carbon ate it,” posits Rhys. I think we have a winner. Eeew…yucky! Not thinking about what most likely happened to said pile of poop, and feeling quite grateful that I don’t let Carbon lick my face, I say, “Well Quinn, just get Carbon’s poop picked up.” He does and we speak no more of the Case of the Missing Poop.

So far, that’s all I can recall of poop stories. (I was so sure there were more!) Gratefully we have reached the end of our potty training days and soon even our three-year old stages will be but a distant memory and with it, God willing, our poop stories as well. Of course my fear is that in years that pass far too quickly, I will be elderly and it will be my children blogging about my poop stories. Perhaps I shouldn’t post this. . . .