The Poop On Us

If you were attracted to this posting in anticipation of getting the skinny on the Family Wo, you are going to be disappointed. There will be no wild tales of pre-child bacchanals and ill-advised "couples" tattoos. Similarly there will be no accounts of any Vegas trips involving sheep, hookers, or land sharks... loan sharks.

The truth is far more prosaic. I refer to our lovely children, our kind children, our sweet little people who ingest food and who therefore also defecate. It's the circle of life, I think.

The poop thing is proving to be, shall I say, rather prevalent of late. E is toilet training. I feel sometimes that the poor thing is leading me through the process. I have commented elsewhere on the difficulty I face re: usage of public facilities. Perhaps this is hereditary. Right now E appears to operate best when the pot is concealed behind the bedroom curtains, like some Cirque du Merde meditaion tent. Upon reflection, I am incorrect in my assertion. The other effective place, for the purpose of conducting the business, appears to be restaurant washrooms. Of late we have been eating out a fair bit. Potty training is expensive!

But to the dramatic tie-in to the title. E sometimes takes a runner post-business. On occasion, say if, um, the poo-catching pants were not removed in a timely manner, then there can be, I don't know how to say it, in the event of solidity issues, excessive coverage. Many a runner concludes with the long arm of the law (me) reaching in before she gets too far. Mo, as it turns out, appears able to calm the brown streak using verbal means, but not this correspondent. Nope, I favour collecting her in my arms and taking her to a biohazard site for cleaning. Hence the poop on me. (Formerly on E.)

A is all of three months old. He poos frequently. Mo likes to bathe with A. You see where this is going. The other night she found the perfect bathing position for A, insofar as the release of infant fecal matter is concerned. It appeared, did the poop, like some re-enactment of the Beverly Hillbillies introductory sequence, or Krakatoa (except it was underwater the entire time, and in a tub, and poo, not lava). The thing I did not previously know about the baby poop is how well it adheres to human hair... that's the poop on Mo.

Yesterday baby A performed some rumbling. There was grumbling. He was double bagged, in two suits, as he had been outside (where autumn has asserted itself). I did not notice the spreading stain, the fecal march across his back, as I attempted to soothe him. Mo noted: You're spreading it across his back. Indeed. By the time I de-suited the lad he was covered up to his armpits. A cleaning squad was retained for this one. The poop on him.

Bon Appetit, P-man out.