Before one becomes a parent, it is difficult to fully comprehend how your life is about to change. Some of these changes seem obvious, and upon reflecting on them after entering parenthood, are not that big of a shock:

  • It is now much more difficult to travel, run simple errands, or be a guest in another person’s home.
  • You become quite obsessed with the amount of sleep you get at night, and if applicable, how long your child naps during the day.
  • You find it difficult to keep up with the current TV programs or see a new movie, but you are well versed in the programming options available on Sprout or Nick Jr.

These are not surprising. There are far more other aspects of parenthood that I have found myself grossly unprepared for.

Like today’s featured item: I find myself surprised and dismayed by the fact that:

  •  I am often preoccupied with and disturbingly compelled to discuss my children’s bodily functions.

Especially their bowel movements. (If you read about my recent hiney-wiping escapades, this likely will not shock you.

I said recently that we should start a drinking game around the word “poop” in our house. Fun idea, except that I would be rendered incapable of driving my children anywhere ever again.

Being consumed by tracking my one year old’s bowel movements seems somewhat understandable; she is a baby still, and in diapers, and I spend a lot of time handling her actual poop.

But the real problem is my six year old.

Fluctuating wildly between constipation and hyper-pooping/near-diarrhea, it is like fecal feast or famine. Or, to take the alliteration one step further, “f-cking fecal feast or famine”.

One evening she had a tummyache, and had been attempting to alleviate her discomfort in the bathroom all evening, to no avail. Twenty minutes after we put her to bed she materialized downstairs by the couch, announcing she needed to poop.

I gave her the metaphorical thumbs-up, and she went to do her business.

Nearly half an hour later, after much grunting, straining, and mumbling, she hollered triumphantly, “Mommy! I did it! I pooped! Come see!”

Equally jubilant and strangely not at all disgusted, I bounded into the bathroom to behold the fruit of her labor.

There, in the toilet was literally the tiniest piece of shit I have ever seen.

I knew we were in for it.

Ever since, I have monitored her digestive accomplishments with voracious vigilance. I talk about poop all the f*cking time. I embarrass myself.

So, if you have toddlers or preschoolers, and you are operating under the delusion that in the near future you will no longer be so involved in their digestive functioning….think again. Sorry.

Out of respect to  you, dear readers, and your delicate sensibilities, I will not provide my usual photographic accompaniments to this post. Sadly, it’s not for lack of material.

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