The Poop Chronicles

I would really love to be able to say I have more to talk about than poop.

But I don't. My life revolves around poop right now.

Potty training is going really well. Except for number two. G absolutely refuses to go in the potty. Not even for chocolate chips. Not even for TWO stickers. Not even for a chance to go to the train store.

Clearly, I'm not above bribery.

The other day while at my parents, I had the bright idea of letting him go in their raspberry patch and eat to his hearts content. I mean, there's no way he'll be able to hold it once he's eaten his weight in raspberries.

Right?

Wrong. He held it and held it and held it. He ran around the yard clutching his little bottom. He begged for a diaper.

I finally convinced him to go poo poo in the yard like a doggy. Then I followed him around with a shovel. Not one of my proudest moments.

And yes, I know this is questionable parenting. But seriously, I can't deal with the poopy undies. Beyond gross. (I did see Thea's suggestion on my last post to let G change his own poopy undies and I've taken it under advisement).

Preschool starts in about three weeks. Admittedly, I don't think we're going to have him fully potty independent by then, we may have to postpone enrollment for a month or so.

But good lord, I could really use those three hours, two times weekly to chill. And by chill I mean run around like a madwoman trying to run all the errands that are nearly impossible with two kids in tow.

And I also fully realize that if my son ever reads this post, years down the road, he will be mortified and will probably be putting me in a horrible nursing home.

But really? He really should be changing MY poopy underwear. It's only fair.

Again With the Poop

When I was in college, my roommate Christine and I used to sit around over a half rack of Coors Light musing about the deeper things in life.

Such as, poop.

We had this conversation where we came to the conclusion you could not say the word poop without laughing. We tried over and over again and erupted into fits of laughter every time.

I'm sure the beer had nothing to do with it.

Now, ten years later, poop is still a huge part of my life. Yes, I write about poop a lot. I can't help it. It's amazing how important it becomes when you have a kid. Too many? Not enough? I don't remember him eating [insert food here]? Did ALL of that seriously come out of my tiny little child? And so on.

So we're back to the pooping in the tub issue. But now, I think it's a game.

A messy, disgusting, gag-inducing game.

For three nights straight, G has looked me in the eye, bore down, and crapped in the tub. Clearly, he's doing it with purpose.

I was talking to my mom last night and she suggested maybe he's ready to try a potty.

'But he's not even 17 months old yet!' I protested. But it got me thinking. Could he really be ready to try to use a potty? My little baby? Could it be true?

Today, we make the trek to Babies r Us to pick out a potty. I'm so not ready for this, I haven't done any research on what kind to get, maybe a book I should read?

I'm not getting too excited over this, as it could turn out he just likes pooping in the tub. It must be a thrill having mommy gasp, grasp you under the arms and whisk you out of the tub, then try to figure out how to fish a turd out of the bubbles. I may buy a little goldfish net today too. And another jug of bleach.

If anyone has any potty training advice/product suggestions/book recommendations, I'm all ears.

And I am most definitely not letting him in the wading pool diaper less. I don't need a Caddyshack situation on my hands.

Poop and Farts - My Life with Boys.

I once worked for a man who said: "It's funny when you're three and it's still funny when you're eighty-three."

He was referring to bodily functions.

In the last two days, I have been farted at and on (YES ON) and I don't know quite how to say this - it was not by my child. Ahhh. Romance! Nothing quite says 'I love you' like being pinned to the ground and forcibly flatulated (is that a word) on. And it's even better when your toddler looks on with glee, clapping his hands and cackling like a little imp.

Even our male dog farts at me. Carl somehow can aim his tush right at me and ready...aim...fire. Seriously. These things call for gas masks.

Conversation from last night:

B and I looking at each other.
"Was that you?"
"No. I was going to ask you the same thing."
Simultaneously look down at Carl sprawled out on the floor.
"I guess I shouldn't have fed him that left over garlic butter..."

And to cap it all off, G seriously had the most offensive, atrocious poop last night. I was feeding him dinner and he started grunting and pushing. I wasn't too alarmed, I figured it was just a normal poop.

Oh no. Oh Lord no.

I knew I was in trouble when I pulled him out of the highchair and I could see it SEEPING UP HIS ONESIE.

I had already run his bath so we proceeded to the bathroom. Where I pulled down his jeans to discover the poo had also escaped his diaper at the leg holes and had traveled down his legs and to his socks. Damn you Pampers!

At this point, I called in reinforcements. B brought me about 40 wipes and almost barfed. He had to leave the scene of the crime.

All the while, G is happily singing to himself, trying to grab at his nasty diaper and then touch every surface in the bathroom. I peeled off his clothes, threw them in the toilet, wiped off the CHUNKS and into the bath he went.

The clothes required about five minutes of swirling and flushing. And it was still sticking. I'm praying that my high tech washer lives up to its promises.

So, I guess this is my life now. Bodily functions.

I need to bone up of the fart jokes, stat.

Hope Floats, Poop Does Not

The good news - G has a healthy diet.
The bad news is how I found out. He pooped in the tub tonight. And it sunk. Two perfect little turds, straight to the bottom of the tub.
I have talked to so many mom's who inevitably have a poop episode in the tub regularly. I've been very lucky. We only had what I call 'poop soup' once, and he was very small at the time. Tonight, he was standing up at the side of the bathtub, letting me brush his teeth.
'Guckie!' He said. There are ducks on his toothbrush. 'Guckie!' Then silence.
He gave me a very serious look, then:
'Hnnnnnnnnnh.' Plop.
'Hnnnnnnnnnnnnnh.' Plop.
I stayed calm while I tried to figure out what to do. I pulled the plug and ushered the offending doo doo down the drain (which started to slow, but is still draining, hopefully it will be okay) and kept him standing up. I quickly soaped G up, then rinsed him with the shower head. Yeah, he LOVED that. Note sarcasm.
A quick towel off then I handed him off to Daddy. Then I went to work with the bleach. All the toys in the tub, tub filled with the super hot water and Clorox. My hands have that gross bleachy feeling, but I'm pretty sure the tub is clean.
And I'm also pretty sure G is getting plenty of fiber and not too much fat.