26 March 2009


That's right. Poop. Or stink-o's. Maybe yuckies. My life revolves to a major degree around bowel-producing nastiness that comes in a variety of colors, textures, and fragrances. Do you have the mental picture?
Tyson is 3 1/2 years old and STILL wears a diaper. Gasp. I know. He quite adamantly refuses to use the potty (except for a couple of break throughs recently) and I am working up the courage and patience to make him. It's quite a process. Tucker is 2 and just started talking so potty training is going to have to wait on him as well (although I have a suspicion that as soon as Tyson starts using the potty with frequency Tucker will want to follow suit for nothing more than to be like his brother). SO on any given day we (and I say "we" liberally) change 6-8 vomit inducing, nose plugging, dozen wipe using diapers.
To add to this mix, we have two large beasts that also happen to defecate, they just happen to do it outside. The boys and I have a little game that we play in order to eradicate the backyard of poopoos: every time that we go outside to play, I pick up the road-side bombs so that they don't end up on shoes, fingers or tire wheels. It's quite an undertaking actually. As soon as the boys are dressed, they run outside to search while I put my clothes on. In the 2 minutes it takes to put my contacts in, change into something more un-I-just-rolled-out-of-bed, grab my phone, grab two bags and turn off lights inside (trying to save on that electric bill...) the boys successfully locate all threats and are waiting at attention to reports their findings. Tucker really gets into this game. As soon as he spots me walking to the door, he runs down the steps pointing and saying, "poopoo, poopoo." I follow and within a matter of minutes the yard is free of all offending matter. Now if only my dogs could understand this game. They invariably will relieve themselves minutes after the yard is clean and I have taken the trash to the dumpster. Which then spurs on another bought of Tucker running around, pointing and saying, "poopoo, poopoo." The trick is if I don't head his warnings fast enough, he will attempt to remove the squishy log, thereby dropping it and run to me to show me the damage that has been done to his hands. Gross.
So this is how we spend our days, around the eternal poop clock. Fun isn't it?


Jennifer W. said...

THIS is what I need to hear to remind myself that maybe not being on domestic house goddess duty all day every day isn't so bad. At my job I get paid to pick up poop. I'm thinking you got the short end of the poop stick on this one.

Jennifer W. said...

PS did you read Dooce's 'Jetsons' blog today? Love it. Can't wait to read the book.

Brooke said...

I hate poop. Sometimes I pretend to not smell it until Josh comes home just so he has to change it. Is that bad? I NEED K to be potty trained--my stomach is way to weak to deal with toddler poop.