thursday was a shit show
I know, I know, I know, I said I would only ever write that one post about poop, but YOU GUYS, today was a shit show in 3 parts.
I woke up, threw on yoga pants and a sweatshirt, changed two poopy diapers, washed my hands, and poured two bowls of cereal.
While the boys ate, I packed two box lunches for our day at the zoo, made a bagel for myself, and ate it, licking cream cheese from my thumb when a single, lightly sour shmear found itself irresistibly on the skin between the joints of my finger.
I read two stories, shoved two sets of kicking legs into two pairs of jeans. I smelled poop.
I pulled open the back of Buster's pants to peer down into his diaper. "Did you poop, B?" Nope.
I poured two water bottles, stuffed them into my backpack. I smelled poop.
I patted Chicken's diapered bottom and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Did you poop again?" Nope.
I put on 3 pairs of shoes. Squeezed a small dollop of sunscreen into the cup of my palm, spread it over Chicken's face, Buster's face, their hands, their necks. I smelled poop.
I smelled Buster's hair, Chicken's hair. Nope.
I herded the boys down to the garage, and clipped them into the stroller. I slipped on my backpack, slipped down my shades, and opened the garage.
I worked my earbuds into my ears. And that's when I saw it.
Well obviously I couldn't go to the zoo with a poopy sweatshirt - the monkeys would riot.
Obviously I would have to go back upstairs and change my shirt and put this shirt into the washer on extra hot.
Obviously a socialized human woman would never knowingly commit to 5 hours of wearing a garment crusted in shit.
Obviously all of the work that went into getting these two kids dressed and packed and clipped into the strollers with 4 shoes on 4 feet mostly correctly, all of that momentum must now fizzle and die in this driveway so that I can address my personal standards of hygiene.
Obviously...
We got home from the zoo and I hustled Chicken up the stairs with one hand, my other arm (the one with the poop sleeve) hooked snugly under Buster's butt as he snored on my shoulder.
He darted to the landing and grabbed his rain boots.
"No," I said.
"But!" he said.
"No," I said.
"But I just wanna bring them in the room for a minute!"
"Fine," I said.
(If you are tempted to say a single fucking word about boundaries and consistency and rewarding negative behaviors like persistent boundary-testing, two things: 1) remember that I am STILL wearing a sweatshirt with shit crusted on the sleeve; 2) thoughts are just thoughts but you better ask somebody before you turn those thoughts into words.)
Chicken walked straight into my bedroom (Thank you, Jesus, for your small mercies) and I murmured, aware of how close my mouth was to Buster's ear, "I'll be right there, honey. I'm just going to put B down."
"Okay, Mommy," he replied. Huh! That was easy.
I lay Buster down, switched off the lamp. He rolled over, tucked his knees under his body, and heaved a sigh that could only mean FINALLY.
I closed the door and crossed the hall to my room.
I opened the door.
Chicken sat in my bed, wearing his rain boots and the particular brand of radiant, toothy smile that Crest commercial directors can only dream about.
"No," I said.
"But!" he said.
"No," I said, "we have to see if they're clean before you get in my bed."
"They're clean!" I looked at the boots. Huh! They are clean!
"I guess they are clean," I said.
"Yeah," said Chicken. I opened my mouth to give my blessing on boots in bed, but before I could speak, Chicken continued, "but they're full of sand."
WHAT.
"They are?" I put my hands under his armpits to pull him out of bed, but before I got my latch, he pulled off the boots.
... and that, my friends, is why you need a Dustbuster.
... and that, my friends, is why you need a vacuum for when you don't charge your Dustbuster.
#notallshitisshit
#someshitissand
#sandisshit
#yousandedinmybedmofo
During quiet time, I made some phone calls and took care of household business.
At about 3:20, I looked at the clock and thought, "woah! I bet Chicken fell asleep."
I went into the bedroom. I gasped.
Chicken was not asleep.
He sat on the floor next to my bedside table, and when he heard the door open he turned to look over his shoulder.
"I made a waterfall," he said, gesturing to the painting on the wall.
"Is that...?"
"Poop," he said. "Yeah, it was kinda hard to paint with, but... I made a waterfall." His eyes held me. He waited for the verdict.
Two voices warred inside me:
"What did you paint with, baby?"
He pointed to my iPhone charger, relieved of its charging duties now and forevermore.
I picked up the charger, held it up to the light.
PART ONE: THE PHANTOM MENACE
I woke up, threw on yoga pants and a sweatshirt, changed two poopy diapers, washed my hands, and poured two bowls of cereal.
While the boys ate, I packed two box lunches for our day at the zoo, made a bagel for myself, and ate it, licking cream cheese from my thumb when a single, lightly sour shmear found itself irresistibly on the skin between the joints of my finger.
I read two stories, shoved two sets of kicking legs into two pairs of jeans. I smelled poop.
I pulled open the back of Buster's pants to peer down into his diaper. "Did you poop, B?" Nope.
I poured two water bottles, stuffed them into my backpack. I smelled poop.
I patted Chicken's diapered bottom and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Did you poop again?" Nope.
I put on 3 pairs of shoes. Squeezed a small dollop of sunscreen into the cup of my palm, spread it over Chicken's face, Buster's face, their hands, their necks. I smelled poop.
I smelled Buster's hair, Chicken's hair. Nope.
I herded the boys down to the garage, and clipped them into the stroller. I slipped on my backpack, slipped down my shades, and opened the garage.
I worked my earbuds into my ears. And that's when I saw it.
 |
| clever girl |
Well obviously I couldn't go to the zoo with a poopy sweatshirt - the monkeys would riot.
Obviously I would have to go back upstairs and change my shirt and put this shirt into the washer on extra hot.
Obviously a socialized human woman would never knowingly commit to 5 hours of wearing a garment crusted in shit.
Obviously all of the work that went into getting these two kids dressed and packed and clipped into the strollers with 4 shoes on 4 feet mostly correctly, all of that momentum must now fizzle and die in this driveway so that I can address my personal standards of hygiene.
Obviously...
 |
| fuck the man let's roll |
PART TWO: NOT ALL SHIT IS SHIT
We got home from the zoo and I hustled Chicken up the stairs with one hand, my other arm (the one with the poop sleeve) hooked snugly under Buster's butt as he snored on my shoulder.
He darted to the landing and grabbed his rain boots.
"No," I said.
"But!" he said.
"No," I said.
"But I just wanna bring them in the room for a minute!"
"Fine," I said.
(If you are tempted to say a single fucking word about boundaries and consistency and rewarding negative behaviors like persistent boundary-testing, two things: 1) remember that I am STILL wearing a sweatshirt with shit crusted on the sleeve; 2) thoughts are just thoughts but you better ask somebody before you turn those thoughts into words.)
Chicken walked straight into my bedroom (Thank you, Jesus, for your small mercies) and I murmured, aware of how close my mouth was to Buster's ear, "I'll be right there, honey. I'm just going to put B down."
"Okay, Mommy," he replied. Huh! That was easy.
I lay Buster down, switched off the lamp. He rolled over, tucked his knees under his body, and heaved a sigh that could only mean FINALLY.
I closed the door and crossed the hall to my room.
I opened the door.
Chicken sat in my bed, wearing his rain boots and the particular brand of radiant, toothy smile that Crest commercial directors can only dream about.
"No," I said.
"But!" he said.
"No," I said, "we have to see if they're clean before you get in my bed."
"They're clean!" I looked at the boots. Huh! They are clean!
"I guess they are clean," I said.
"Yeah," said Chicken. I opened my mouth to give my blessing on boots in bed, but before I could speak, Chicken continued, "but they're full of sand."
WHAT.
"They are?" I put my hands under his armpits to pull him out of bed, but before I got my latch, he pulled off the boots.
... and that, my friends, is why you need a Dustbuster.
... and that, my friends, is why you need a vacuum for when you don't charge your Dustbuster.
#notallshitisshit
#someshitissand
#sandisshit
#yousandedinmybedmofo
PART THREE: THAT'S VERY CREATIVE
During quiet time, I made some phone calls and took care of household business.
At about 3:20, I looked at the clock and thought, "woah! I bet Chicken fell asleep."
I went into the bedroom. I gasped.
Chicken was not asleep.
He sat on the floor next to my bedside table, and when he heard the door open he turned to look over his shoulder.
"I made a waterfall," he said, gesturing to the painting on the wall.
"Is that...?"
"Poop," he said. "Yeah, it was kinda hard to paint with, but... I made a waterfall." His eyes held me. He waited for the verdict.
Two voices warred inside me:
WHAT THE LITERAL SHIT.
But look at him. He's so proud.
HE IS PROUD THAT HE SMEARED HUMAN SHIT ON THE WALL. THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.
But he's worked quietly on this waterfall--
IT'S NOT A WATERFALL. DON'T NAME THE SHIT PAINTING. IT'S NOT A KITTEN YOU FOUND UNDER THE PORCH. IT IS SHIT ON THE WALL WHERE YOU SLEEP.
-- for an hour and a half. Really, this is--
ARE THOSE GOUGE-MARKS? WHAT WAS HE PAINTING WITH?
Good question.
"What did you paint with, baby?"
He pointed to my iPhone charger, relieved of its charging duties now and forevermore.
I picked up the charger, held it up to the light.
 |
| Me: Wow. Him: Yeah. Me: Did you... dip it? Him: Yeah, I kinda dipped it Me: In your diaper? Him: Yeah, and out of my diaper where the poop is out of my diaper. I dipped it and then I scraped it. Me: Huh. |
Yep. That's what he used. That makes sense. It was plugged in right there.
THIS IS NOT OKAY. WHAT KIND OF SAVAGE BEAST--
-- but if nobody ever told you that painting with your own shit was wrong, how would you know?
BECAUSE IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT.
That's a construct.
YOU'RE A CONSTRUCT. SHIT IS NOT FOR PLAYING WITH.
You're closed-minded and afraid of what people will think of you.
WHAT NO YOU ARE MY COUSIN'S GAY AND HIS BOYFRIEND IS REALLY NICE.
Who said anything about gay?
WHAT YOU DID
He's still watching us to see what we'll do.
WHAT YOU DID
He's still watching us to see what we'll do.
SHAME HIM
Hug him
YELL AT HIM
Hug him
FINE. HUG HIM.
AFTER A BATH.
I said, "you know what? That is very creative, baby. I really love your waterfall."
He sighed, with relief or resignation I couldn't say. Then he said, "I really love it too, but I don't want to tell anybody about it. I don't want them to say 'oh dear.' What I want them to say is 'that's very creative.'"
I took him to the bathroom and ran a hot, bubbly bath. I wiped all the smears of poop from his back, his legs, his arms, his fingers.
I texted Ryan:
Me: I am about to call you and tell you something Chicken did. You CANNOT SAY OH DEAR.
Ryan: OK
Me: You have to say something like, "that's very creative."
Ryan: OK
The phone call went very well.
After that, Chicken asked if we could call Nana. I texted Nana the instructions: Express nothing but amazement at his creativity. We called. We told her. Nana played along like the seasoned champ she is. When she said, "wow, I am so amazed at how creative you are, to use a cell phone charger to paint with your own poop. That is amazing. I don't think I know anybody who has ever done that before," Chicken's entire face lit up. He joy-whispered, "she said it, too!"
Sure, sure, we had the talk about how shit is not a toy and it could make you sick and give you diseases.
Sure, sure, he watched as I gloved up and cleaned and sanitized the waterfall and talked about bacteria and pink-eye.
But I think we all learned a bigger lesson today. The question is, what is that lesson?
1. A clean sweatshirt is always a good idea but yo, once the kids are strapped in WE ARE GOING.
2. When given the choice between sand and shit, I choose (sets house on fire)
3. There's a thin line between deface and defecate.
Those are all good ones, but I think the big lesson today was this:
Unless you're prepared for heavy - SAY AGAIN - HEAVY HOSTILE ENGAGEMENT with another person's crap, please use birth control.
And before you ask, there is only one "Rhythm Method" that actually prevents pregnancy:
 |
| jesus oh god the rhythm... i can't i'm sorry you're really pretty but i may never ejaculate again i think i think i can hear my sperm they're drinking the kool aid they're ready for the next life for the reckoning please please please stop |