Skip to main content

crap...

feces, BM, stool, waste, excrement, poop, shit, poo-poo, number two, dropping a load...
No matter what you call it we have it in spades at our house and I've been drowning in it.
Yes, yes, I realize that there is a great little metaphor dangling over my head at this odorous hour, but I prefer to just focus on the facts at hand. I am potty training a two year old and a puppy simultaneously, and doing a poor job with both I might add.
This morning, my little ray of sunshine took off his underwear pleasantly and pooped on his brother's carpet, then waltzed over to me (in the back room) and announced, "I POOP ON BRO-BRO'S FLOOR!". Later that same day, as I finished cleaning him up after his second pee incident and was tending to my urine splattered kitchen floor, he said, "I HAVE TO POO MAMA" simultaneously trailing poop all over the kitchen and down the hall as he scurried toward the toilet. A few short hours later, Maia escaped from her temporary safety zone (she was only in there for a brief 30 minute supper session) and promptly did some sort of frenzied poop dance all over my front sitting room, spinning and flinging poop with wild abandon across the whole of my Santa Fe hemp rug.Now of course, you are all assuming that I handled this with the ease and poise of a seasoned mama and Montessori teacher. Alas, I must disappoint, each time I yell, "OH MY GOD... CRAP!!... THERE IS CRAP ALL OVER THE FLOOR" and stare in horror and dismay at the scene before me, while turning a brilliant shade of scarlet and jumping up and down in the best Yosemite Sam impression I can muster. I occasionally add other superlatives, all of them involve taking someone holy's name in vain... "Holy mother of God there is CRAP on the floor", or just a loud and frenzied, "JESUS!"... I pardon these outbursts, because I hold a fundamental conviction, that in times of great spiritual peril one should call upon whatever great and abiding omnipotence that comes to mind. I can think of no greater need than slipping on crap across spanish tiles or smelling human fecal matter on wool carpet.
Bodhi may be emotionally maimed for life. He has begun announcing JESUS, I POOP IN TOILET!, whether or not he actually does. The dog on the other hand is just endanger of being maimed, throttled and/or incarcerated for life. As for me, I am simply in danger of mild insanity, but I'm in no actual danger, I have already been suffering from the full blown variety for years.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

tree digging

Yes, I know it doesn't look like much.  It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall.  The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep.  But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy.  I am a woman who loves the spring.  I nearly live for it.  When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis.  I gorge.  This year has been hard.  Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally.  The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...
2 comments
Read more

Coraggio

When everything looks bleak and the darkness cramps against the cold, it takes courage to simply look out from imagined isolation toward the wide horizon of beauty available in every moment.  It takes courage to lean into the sea of life and trust the tide. When weary limbs no longer support us, it takes courage to trust our inner buoyancy and float.  It takes courage, in the face of darkness, to remember the light and sit in all our apparent blindness and listen, silently, to the still, small whisper within.  It takes courage, in that dark hour, when nothing else remains.  Eyes closed.  Eyes opened.  A glimpse, a memory, a fleeting vision of a light so bright it blurs the borders of things seen and things perceived into a comprehensive wholeness of being.  It takes courage.
4 comments
Read more

grief

Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the ...
4 comments
Read more