Blindly walking through my living room, carrying a Mt. Everest sized mound of clothes, I use my mom “spidey sense” to avoid toppling over my 26 month old daughter and my 8 month old son. I step lightly in order to prevent putting all of my weight on the numerous “landmines” (tiny toys or leggos) scattered across the floor. Putting your full weight on a tiny plastic toy sitting on our cherry hardwood floors would not only cause horrific pain, it would slide under foot, like a skate on an ice rink, sending me and my ginormous pile of laundry flailing through the living room in a wild desperate attempt at preventing damage to anyone or anything. Not to mention the inevitable, unavoidable mom curse words that would surly follow. “Fraggitly frig fraggle, flubber buns!!!”
I’ve recently decided to view the “messes” that my children make as ingenious works of art. Like their own artistic interpretation of what our floor should be. I do my part for their artistic development by clearing the canvas every evening so they can exercise their abilities the next day. This thought has successfully kept me from pulling my hair out. Go with what works, right?
As I make my way towards the kitchen I get a whiff of an all too familiar scent. I drop the laundry off with it’s K2 sized cousin and walk back into the living room. “So, who poo’d?” I ask ready to roll up sleeves and dive in. Of course I get nothing in response so I go about sniffing their cute, cloth diapered buns and discover the culprit.
It’s just one of the many poop questions or statements that a mom makes everyday. 10 years ago if someone had told me I’d be begging a 2 year old to “poo for mama” I would’ve laughed in their face. However now days shouting, “You owe me a poo!’ to my kids or “Did he/she poo?” to my husband are just part of daily conversing. It’s funny how much of a parent’s life is consumed by their children’s excrement in those first few years. Cleaning it, marveling over the sheer volumes of it, fretting over it’s colors or the lack of it, and yes, preventing them from eating it.
I finish changing the baby, drop his diaper in the pail, release him to continue his work of art and wash my hands. As I head past the kids to prepare lunch it hits me. A new, slightly more repulsive, yet equally unmistakable scent. “Alright, who poo’d?”