Poop On Hand

No, like actually poop.  on.  hands.

I was going to do a series for this blog called, "WTF is that?!" where I posted photo documentation of every time I've encountered an unidentified piece of detritus on the floor of my house that, because of my declining eyesight, has caused me to hold my breath for a second, hoping it's not poop.  Yes, like actual feces.  Because if you have a few small kids, you never know when that brown Lego that you go to pick up will actually be a little rolly-polly of human waste.

They're like burs, you know- they can like, hitch a ride in a pants cuff and then jump out at any preferred stop.  Hours, sometimes days after being excreted.

I was JUST thinking that I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.  The twins are three after all.  Almost human.   Foolishly, I silently wondered, am I free of the fear?  Can I now safely approach a small brown object from across the dining room and relax knowing that it is JUST LEGO HAIR.

But if I've learned anything (and I haven't) I know that as soon as you let your guard down there will certainly come baby shit.

It is a true story that I was just telling my friend Kristine during a playdate that the twins have regressed in potty training.  (A move clearly intended for the sole purpose of totally unraveling my already fragile sanity).  As I was telling, I said, "You hear that?"

"What?"  She listened, concerned.

"Nothing, that's what.  If Griffin is silent this long something terrible has come to pass and that is with 100% certainty.  I have to go check the damage."

I go downstairs where the kids are playing and find him at the bottom of the steps.  Pantless.  He is wringing his hands, which he has covered to the wrists in an expensive mud mask from an Icelandic Spa.

After adjusting my slow-focus eyes, I calmly inquire, "Griff?  Is that poop on your hands?"  He nods. And my eye is led across the trail of destruction leading back to the training potty in the bathroom.  Carnage.  I briefly consider calling '911'.

Alas, we clean the poop and my friend Kristine, who is pregnant, does not throw up.  I am so impressed.  It must be her sturdy Swedish stock.

But I am thinking THAT MUST BE IT.  My final Poop Interlude.  Right?


I have another playdate.  (Because I am All Fun and No Joy, y'all.)  and there are four preschoolers downstairs.  It happens.  A renegade nugget.

"Whatcha got there, Annika" says my innocent mom friend.  My daughter turns over the morsel in her tiny fingers.  Calico Critter accessory?  Hmm.  No Legos downstairs, so.  "Honey, can you put that down?"

I veer dangerously close to it- like, my goddamn face is inches from the excrement and it is identified.  "That is poop, people."

Here is a clip of what was going through my mind- Kyle McLachlan is playing me:

All I could say was, "When is it from?" like it was a charming historical artifact.  "Yeah, when IS it from" my mom friend chimed.   I grabbed a tissue and checked its density.  "It new.  Its from now" I reported.

We looked at all the possible suspects and then my mom friend says, "Barnaby.  He doesn't have any underwear on!"

Barnaby smiles.

And so it goes.  I am quite literally surrounded by actual poop and imagined poop and there is no end in sight.  I cannot decide whether I get the glasses, or don't get the glasses.  Maybe I don't want to see.  I don't want to know.   Like so many parts of being a parent.

In summary: don't accept playdates with me.  My house is full of human feces.  It will probably fall on your shoulder.  Or be in your coffee.  Don't say you weren't warned.  The End.

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