Wednesday, November 15, 2006

The Case of the Baby Teeth Indented Poop Balls

I stepped in dog poop while taking a stroll with the kids this morning. I was barefoot. Lucky me. I win big prizes.

"Ear muffs, kids. NOW!" I shouted in disgust, signaling for my oogling chitlins to clasp their hands over their innocent mostly selective listening ears. Insert a Turrets Syndrome like firestorm of uncontrollable choice f-bomb expletives. "G-damn, m-f-ers can't even pick up after their stupid dogs. Now look at my feet." (Do I also win the bad influence cussing mom award, I wonder?)

"Mom, ya 'got poo on you fees?" my curious two-year-old daughter asked between long suck-drags on her favorite thumb. "Look at this mustard colored poop streak! Of course it's poop, now hurry! Scoot! Hurry back home so I can clean it off!"

I hopped down the sidewalk on one foot in order to avoid driving the canine crap further into the dry cracks in my calloused heel. My neighbors could think two things: 1) Yes. That bitch is as crazy as she looks. Confirmation complete. 2) Wow. What a fun, involved mother who plays so animately with her lovely children. I'm banking on option number one. How about you?

The kids chortled like happy little elves, following close behind their fecal frowning Pied Poopy Piper. There goes mommy full of shame-tail, hoppin' down the bunny trail, dog poop and all.

"You stink like dog poop, mama!" my Moody Cheeks McGee, 3, squawked, covering his upturned mouth with his cupped hand for added ridicule effect. "Mommy is a poopy girl! Mommy is a poopy girl! Dog poopy mommy! You're a poo poo head!"

Apparently "poop," and especially "dog poop," rank right alongside the word "underwear" with the whippersnappers.

(Thankfully it takes a lot more than poop comedy to crack a jaded adult like me up. Um, yeah. Two words: Chappelle's Show. Let's add another two or so words to that: Dave Chappelle as Rick James. Now that's sophisticated adult entertainment light years above childish poop gags. Sure. It's right up there with Chappelle's hilarious "Pee On You" R. Kelly sattire. Of course, I would never, ever laugh at such base potty humor, now would I?)

Back to my woeful tales of malodorous "number two" ... Now both kids (my eldest was in kindergarten at the time, or this would read "all three kids") chime in for a melodious dog pooh duo, chanting, "Doggy doo on you! Doggy do on you!" (think "doom on you" from the watermelon hoarding dodo birds in Ice Age I) pointing at their flush faced, poop smeared madre.

As I hosed off my soiled foot with the always outstretched across the lawn in an acutely white trash fashion (along with the rusty BMX bikes and Big Wheels strewn this way and that in the driveway), I thought back to the time I busted one of my sons, I'm not telling who so he'll still talk to me, DINING ON HIS OWN POOP.

He was just two at the time. It was one of those episodes when the house suddenly fell silent. Too silent. You moms know what speak of. The dreaded pin-drop brand of quiet that signals only one thing: trouble. Yep, the type of deafening silence that says, "Your numb skull kid is testing his palate on a generous culinary sampling of the footnotes from his own bum." So maybe not all of you have experienced what I'm talking about, and I figure that's probably a good thing. Just play along.

So I search the apartment (this was before we bought a house full of closets) for my suspiciously quiet mini marauder. Luckily, I don't yet notice that it stinks like someone "dropped the kids off at the pool," make that someone dropped them off in his Pull-up, then impishly dumped the dump on his bed quilt.

When I found my two-foot offender, he wore the tell-tale shameful look of guilt.

"Where's your Pull-up?" I asked, just as curious about the product of his back-end as he apparently was a the time.

"Ober dere," he matter of factly answered, pointing beneath his pillow, where he had purposely stuffed away the evidence. Sure enough, there his Pull-up was. But it was empty. Something was definitely rotten in Denmark because the room stunk like a full-grown man had just cracked the porcelain in the aftermath of an authentic Mexican triple jalapeno salsa blowout. Sorry to sneak a barf bag alert on you like that. How cheap and inconsiderate of me to toy with your stomach, but I've got to channel my post-poop-traumatic-stress disorder (PPTSD) somewhere, right?

"Okay, so we've located the Pull-up. Now where's the poop? You pooped, right, honey? Give up the poop! Do you even know where your poop is?"

He nodded a guilt dripping "yes" and averted his frown to the Go Fish playing card scattered carpet below.

"Then where is it? Where's your poop?"

"I dunno."

I scanned the room as if routinely looking for the missing half of a pair of socks, but this was weirder because the object of my search was not something I'd unthinkingly pick up with my bare hands, and could technically make me even sicker than a putrid sock.

Apparently my poop-adventurer 2-year-old son wasn't above picking up his own excrement with his bare paws.

When I came up dusty and frustrated from sweeping my hands beneath his trundle bed, there he was, pinching a hard poop ball between his thumb and index finger.

"I foun' it," he said with toddler pride. "De rest is unner my covers."

"I hope there's a laundry room washer available PRONTO!" I thought to myself in a panic. This was before I became a mother of three, mind you, and I was still a touch of a germ-a-phobe. Now I could care if they eat food off the floor, even when the two-second rule is beyond past due.

"Do we even have any detergent? Wait. What if this requires bleach? This is so much worse than a skid mark! I'm calling your father." (This was back at the time when I used to freak out and call my husband whenever the mildest, most mundane child anti-drama unfurled, from a simple scraped knee to an up the back breastmilk diaper blowout, as if he could snap his exceedingly paternal fingers at the office miles away and make my troubles disappear as fast as my new mom memory.)

I turned over the ugly tassle fringed end of my poop-player's celestial themed bedspread. There, fully illuminated in the afternoon sunshine beaming in from the windows, lay the evidence. Two rabbit poop looking orbs the size of peanut M&Ms, both indented by two curious front baby teeth.

I peered at my son and asked him to open his mouth. Sure enough, his two front teeth bore the caramel colored stains of guilt.

"No offense, kiddo," I said between gut laughs, "but your breath really smells like crap!"

How ironic that while rapping out this post on the keyboard, my other son has come to me naked from the bathroom, wearing only two suspect poop smears on his feet and clutching a dripping toilet brush.

Don't even get me started on the time my sister painted our 1970s bathroom wallpaper with her own pooh when we were kids.

It's one o'clock. Do you know where your kid's Pull-up is? While you double check that it's still on, I'll be busy drawing a detoxifying bath for my most recent poop trooper. I'll also be pondering the mind boggling probability of both of us sporting excrement on our bare feet in the same crappy day.

21 Comments:

At 2:17 PM, Blogger Iris said...

I cannot believe that I am the first to comment on this post.

I have to say, your gift for vivid description had me actually gagging. Thanks for that. And what is amazing about that is that I am a nurse in a hospital that doubles as a nursing home and I have seen some poop in my life.

 
At 4:50 PM, Blogger Crunchy Carpets said...

ooooh poop.
Yeah Caity has pooped in the tub when her bro was in with her and also come wandering down the stair hold poop to show that she HAD indeed filled her diaper.

Now we have to change her diaper super fast and pray the nuggets don't make an escape because then the dog eats them.

 
At 5:30 PM, Blogger Chris said...

Wow, that's one nasty story...and yes, I am a bit of a germaphobe. Guess I'll have to get over it in about five months when the baby's born!

The sad thing is, I knew how the story would end, but I still kept on reading...how poopy of me!

 
At 6:20 PM, Blogger Lillithmother said...

Oh no - is this what I have to look forward to now that my daughter knows how to rip off her diaper??!

Thanks for making me laugh (sorry!)

BTW (by the way), Jen and my site - The Only Way Out is Through - is finally up and we have our first contribution. If you'd like to post about what you said in the comment section, feel free to email me!

Lil

 
At 7:53 PM, Blogger Little Miss said...

I walk my dog barefoot EVERY DAY! It's only a matter of time before I step in it! (btw, I ALWAYS pick up after my dog, so that shit you stepped in? Wasn't ours...)

and my Tiny was a poop taster as well. She dropped a few kids off at the pool (literally, she was in the bathtub) and by the time I got to her, she was sportin' a HUGE shizz-eatin' grin!

I even have the pics to prove it!

 
At 5:20 AM, Blogger QueenieBadd said...

Wow-scary gross. Luckily this is NOT one of the poop experiences I have had as a mom. We tend to be more the Great Outdoors poopers-I guess the thinking is "if the dog can do it, then so can I". You can only guess what our neighbors must think of us-"crazy hippie liberal pinko-commies!"

 
At 6:35 AM, Anonymous karrie said...

Hehehe

The "butt bauuuls!" are most likely to be on the floor, next to the toilet at our house.

My two-year-old has not taken a bite yet, so I'll have to make sure he doesn't read this entry.

 
At 6:35 AM, Blogger sunshine scribe said...

I don't think I can eat for the rest of the day.

You write THAT well!

Gross

 
At 6:51 AM, Blogger Justmee said...

Wow, I don't think I have known or read anyone who had so many poop stories. You should get an award for Mommy with the most poop(chit)in her life story. LOL
Thanks for the laugh and a stroll down memorylane. I recall when I used to call my kids "chitlins". LOL Great Post!

 
At 7:58 AM, Blogger Domestic Slackstress said...

Queen Bad Mama - Once, an anonymous son of mine, "dropped it like it's hot" (wait, it is hot, gross) just under the window of a first-floor apartment dweller in our neighborhood. I was mortified. He, on the other hand, was relieved.

 
At 10:59 AM, Blogger JRX said...

My little girl, age 3, also experiments with touching and playing with her poop. Just last night she touched her poop as it was coming out while sitting on the potty. I was horrified and told her not to touch the poop because it's dirty. Then I made her repeat it back to me as if that would permanently imprint it into her brain. In the past she has also pooped in the tub. When I told her to move to the other end of the tub so I could get it, and then her, out of it, she said, "I want to step on it."

 
At 11:11 AM, Blogger Mad Hatter said...

While I sympathize with your plight entirely, this Canadian is currently looking out her grey, cold, miserable little office window and thinking, "you walked outside barefoot today?????" I won't do that again for about 6 or 7 months. Fortunately for me, my daughter can't get at her crap due to the layers of clothing that are holding it snug to her butt cheeks.

Thanks, once again for the laugh.

 
At 4:14 PM, Blogger ewe are here said...

Thanks for dropping by my blog. ;-)

I have to say, it's bad enough when my little boy's hands immediately reach for his bits when I pull off his diaper to change him, poo or no poo. It's a battle to keep his hands out of it. I can't even imagine him trying to hide poo in his bed or taking a sampling taste. I suppose that's what I hae to look forward to. Shudder.

Double shudder at the thought of hitting it barefoot.

 
At 8:11 PM, Blogger jen said...

the pied poopy piper. i about fell off my chair.

how did you get to be so continually hilarious?

 
At 10:58 PM, Blogger scribbit said...

My little sister one winter picked up "rocks" she found outside, put them in her pocket and when my Mom found them hours later they had nicely defrosted into the dog droppings they were. We still cringe.

 
At 9:40 AM, Blogger Jammer said...

This is a great entry!

My son now calls poop "butt balls." He's 2, doesn't have many words yet, and everything is a ball to him.

He's starting to potty train, so he tells us when he has to poop by saying "butt bauullll!! Butt Baulll!"

He's also begun taking off his diaper, peeing on the floor and then dancing in it. Well, last week at least. This week, he's getting it into the toilet about 75% of the time.

Anyway, Karrie (OneWeirdMother) and I were in the kitchen one morning when we heard Max in the other room yelling "Butt Baull!" over and over, excitedly. We decided we needed to get it on video because it was so cute. (Never mind that if someone had wanted to show me video of their kid doing that, I'd have feigned my own 'butt ball' and beat a hasty exit.)

Karrie grabs her camera and heads in the other room. All I hear is laughter.

Apparently, Max had deposited a nice, round turd on the floor and was dancing around it, naked, yelling 'butt baulll!'

We have it on video, and as soon as we can edit it to hide Max's swinging toddler junk, Karrie will put it up on her blog. :)

 
At 9:41 AM, Blogger Jammer said...

Damn, I now see that Karrie had mentioned this above already. :)

Great blog, by the way!

 
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