Potty Talk

If a bit of TMI (too much information) makes you a tad uncomfortable, this is your sign to turn back. Do not pass go. Gracefully exit this page and come back later. No judgement.

Now, if you’re still here, you were warned. . . I don’t think I could have been properly prepared for how much chatter in my life would revolve around poop. I mean honestly, it is beyond comical at this point. Lowest on the totem pole is the cat. She sings the song of per people, loud and proud, post poo. However, that is the extent of what we get. Moose, via an imaginary cat scratch several months ago on the school playground, has decided that he can now transform into a cat whenever he so desires. A werecat, if you will. Fear not, when I pressed about the dangers of distinguishing what cat could, in fact, cause werecat syndrome, he assured me that it was specifically for boys with long hair. We are safe. This new ability of his, to transform from human to cat at will, comes with the side effects of hissing when startled and the ability to speak cat. He has yet to translate anything Helen has vocalized, other than proclaiming that she is telling him that she loves him. He’s probably not wrong. None of this assists us in any sort of assessment of her health and welfare. We must rely on her barf and poop. Very classy. Very effective.

Next, we progress to the adults of the household. First and foremost, is the fact that our house has one bathroom. Three humans, one bathroom. For the most part, we manage this gracefully. Sometimes, we get a post meal bathroom traffic jam. Moose will excitedly pee in the back yard. This helps. I am screwed in that portion of the equation. More often, is the discussion of my discomforts. I mentioned previously that I have been on the struggle bus for a while now with my lemon of a body. In addition to numerous ailments, the foremost difficult is that of my digestion. We have now learned, this is due to a lovely affliction, endometriosis. Best we can tell, it has slowly grown around my bladder and colon and ever so adeptly strangled them into malfunction. This has manifested into displeasure. Nausea. Internal road blocks. Bloating. Acid reflux. All fun stuff. Resulting in consistent, casual conversations about my woes. It’s romantic.

Finally, we have the tiny human. I anticipated the feces related chatter surrounding a newborn. The consistency. Frequency. Epic tales of blowouts. I was not disappointed. The circle of trusted individuals involved in these conversations was larger than foreseen, however seemingly logical. What I didn’t fully understand as a swollen mother-to-be was that the poo related diagnostic chatter would not slow with age, it would merely evolve from conversation about the child to exchanges with the child.

Moose had a challenging infancy. Poor kiddo had some rough reflux and a rash of ear infections. This meant antibiotics were frequently added to his regiment of medicines. The joys of the gut destroying fallout of antibiotics is not relegated to adults. Probiotics only help so much. As he’s aged, his tummy goes on strike from time to time and refuses to work in a predictable way. It places an ‘out of office’ sign, resulting in tummy aches for the unsuspecting kiddo. When these instances occur, we arm ourselves with Miralax and stricter dietary controls to get him back on track. In the meantime, while we await the auspicious elixir to begin it’s momentum, we have matter-of-fact discourse detailing what is-or is not-happening. The ‘what to expect when you’re expecting’ books do not detail the frequency or nonchalant tone for which you will question your offspring on their excrement. Do you need to poop has become an all too familiar question.

Additionally, is the flippancy for which the need for elimination is declared within our office. Or the errant text message received from my father in which he informs me of his status of bathroom lockdown. Though these are not intended for me, once the preverbal door has been opened jokes gain momentum.

There was a time in my life that all bodily function discussions were uncomfortable, to say the least. At one point, ignoring the need for any sort of activity was a social necessity. The only reason I admitted to sweating was because it was undeniable. Fart in front of anyone? Mortifying. Defecation dialogue? Never. As far as anyone was concerned, everything evaporated from my person via glitter and sunrises. Now, I can’t seem to go beyond a business day without chatting about some mammals bowel movements. Hell, I just chatted with a surgeon last week about just that. I now can confidently proclaim that more than a handful of doctors have conversed with me about my body’s elimination habits.

All joking aside, some of the comfort for which I have gained with navigating through such delicate matters was been born of necessity. Once cannot fix a problem without discussing it. Finding professionals. Enduring less than dignified procedures. Beyond that, it has been a product of finding my people. The ones that allow me to vent about such crude ailments. Laugh about the ridiculous nature of life. And then there is just the realities of motherhood. Poop is merely the tip of the iceberg. For some reason, some gene within the female brain is triggered upon bearing offspring that unlocks the subconscious reaction of a great many unsavory reactions to fluids leaking from said progeny. It’s baffling, to say the least.

All in all, my appropriate dinner table topics is vastly different than I could have predicted many moons ago. Also, farts are funny. Within the grand scheme of things, I am thankful. Not for my, or Moose’s, tummy troubles, but for the comfort in myself. And within the sacred trust of my people. Somehow, it has translated to a child that has no insecurities. His directness and confidence knows no bounds. And at least through the discomfort of it all, we can laugh.