Poop, and other shit stories of parenthood

My two year old is a genius. I asked her this morning what she was thinking about as she sipped on her chocolate milk while delicately balancing the paci from her lips. Her arms clutched her “nigh’ nigh’ bear,” as she sits her snippy cup down, pulls the paci out of her mouth and says, “Poop.”

Yep, my daughter is on her way to being a real intellect. Little does she know in that tiara-wearing head of hers that poop is all we will ever think about.

In the early years, toddlers are fascinated by the concept of pooping — first in their pants and then on everything else.

In the tween years of adolescence life becomes about shit:

- Who gives a shit?
- Who’s being a shit?
- And how can I take a shit without anyone knowing?

Somewhere in our 40s, we finally stop giving a crap about all of the above and our now more concerned about how often our kids and even our pets are pooping and where.

And it doesn’t stop there.

My parents who have joined millions of baby boomers who have lived through lots of shit, now worry about the stability of affordable health care, all to make sure that when the time comes time to take a shit, they can afford their own diapers.

There’s a saying I never really understood, “It’s all going to hell in a handbasket or “When the shit hits the fan.” I think it’s difficult to discern because we lack the context of these sayings. The phrase ‘hell in a handbasket’ originated in the 1740s, when heads were decapitated during guillotine executions with the presumption the dead were being delivered directly to hell…in a handbasket. ‘The shit hit the fan’ saying came about in the 1930s after the invention of the electric fan. But I’m sure, the first child who decided to see what it would be like if he threw his bowels to the wind, sure had a mama that gave him shit afterward.

Perhaps these phrases needs some updating:

•Never wear white in a shit storm.
•When the shit hits the fan, it’s time to turn the fan off.

My sayings offer obvious advice because 1) Moms would never allow shit anywhere near fans or other electronic equipment; and 2) the thought of wearing white and the possibility of being shat upon means more work and laundry in the end. My country-esque husband has a unique expression after a storm rolls through, he says, “It’s gonna be a real turd floater out there.” Because once upon a time — outhouses, and I’m sure turds floated.

It’s happening right now, as my soon to be three-year old is doing a doody in the potty and loves when I clap and put a star on the Potty Chart. I can’t escape it. Poop happens. It happens every day.

So the only advice is either to point your fan in another direction or turn it off altogether. You have choices, just don’t wear white.