Let’s talk about poop.
Or maybe we shouldn’t.
Because I am quickly realizing that very few of my buds in my LA friend circle care to talk about such a subject. Why? Because it’s seen as pretty crude to discuss bodily functions among single, life-loving, 20 somethings–that’s why.
But if you’re a mom, or you’re a nanny, or a personal assistant moonlighting as a nanny, than this is unfortunately a topic with which you are unabashedly familiar.
As I was sitting with a few friends post-workday and debriefing about some on-the-job-challenges, I came up to bat. One person had been lamenting the excuses their high school students had given them about poor test grades and another had commented about how the fitting for her designer label’s winter pieces hadn’t gone smoothly.
“Well, today, little Julie (name changed) pooped her underwear and sat in it before I could get to her.”
I didn’t notice it, but this was when everyone’s jaws simultaneously dropped to the floor. I powered on, ignorant to the silence that signaled their amazement at my base musings.
“And what’s worse,” I add with relish, “is that it wasn’t at all solid. It was that weird in-between texture that makes it really hard to wipe up without using half a role of toilet paper and a pack of Kandoo wipes!”
I paused here waiting for a chorus of “Preach, sister!” and “I hate it when that happens” to greet the closing of my speech.
Instead, I received a kind but firm, “Gross, nobody wants to talk about that! Keep it to yourself!”
Sometimes, I feel like if I had gotten married and popped out a few kids right after college, I would’ve been just fine. In fact, I would’ve been the most social mom at the Pre-K coffee pot regailing my mom-friends with tales of failed sleep training, teeth breaking (not what you’d think, if you’ve never had kids), and of COURSE bowel movements.
There is definitely a generational gap with me and the non-parent crowd as I’ve been taking care of kids for over 10 years…TEN YEARS (I wish the keyboard had an echo effect). I am up-to-date on all of the latest gizmos and gadgets, I’m primed on the latest pureed organic food pouch brands, and I can change a wet diaper in less than 30 seconds (granted, there has to be little to no squirming from the ankle-biter for my best time to show).
But then I have days where I’m with other people’s children and I know I need to be motherless for at least another 5-10 years. These days usually include a romp with a child brimming with life, passion, a proclivity toward biting, tantrums, and carrying a sign that says “I am a Typical-Terrible-Two’s Poster Child. Outta MY WAY.”
And then I resist the urge to converse about feces, gulp my mimosa, and be glad that the only butt I have to wipe at night is my own.