Leaving the poop behind

When I say my life quite literally revolves around poop, I mean it. My husband, Mario, and I both have journalism degrees, so we usually cringe when someone uses the word literally when they really mean figuratively (e.g., “That joke was so funny, I literally wet my pants. Unless you really wet your pants, you mean you figuratively wet your pants.)

But my husband and I have been up to our eyeballs in poop, figuratively speaking, for the last four years, since our first child was born. Even my Easter dessert turned to crap yesterday. It was a recipe I found on Pinterest, and it was something simple enough I could do in an hour with my daughter.

We were trying to make these adorable marshmallows birds’ nests thingamajigs with little candy eggs in them. But when I opened the carton of egg-shaped Whoppers and realized they were not the Easter pastel-colored version, but rather the plain old chocolate egg-shaped kind, my heart sank. When we put them on the nests, it looked like the Cadbury Easter Bunny himself had hopped across our counter and pooped all over our project.

Then on my way to write this blog this morning – which was supposed to be on how nervous I am about leaving my kids when my husband and I take our first vacation in seven years -- I passed my 2-year-old son, who had obviously just filled his Huggies.

Of course he had. This was his regularly scheduled morning poop. The one he takes every weekday morning while I wrestle with my 4-year-old daughter’s hair. He watches Bubble Guppies while eating soggy cereal with his hands then sneaks off into the playroom to play with his choo-choo train set and take a dump.

After my daughter’s hair was suitably tamed, I left her to play with her brand new Baby Alive doll, which poops and pees itself. I walked through the playroom, took one whiff, and told myself I’d change my son’s diaper just as soon as I finished this blog, which was due in an hour.

As I walked to my computer, I saw my kids squatting down on all fours, inspecting something on the hardwood floor. “Mommy, I think it’s poop,” my 4-year-old said.

Of course it was. Pug poop. Spanky Mae had left a nice little package for us. Again. Perfect timing.  I guess this was not as bad as the time when I found my son, then 10-months old, snacking on pug poop he’d picked up off the playroom floor. (I knew that peaceful three minutes of silence was too good to be true.)

I grabbed a Kleenex, picked up the poop, Windexed the floor (I know I shouldn’t use Windex on the floor. But I had a deadline looming – had to improvise) and sat down at the computer.

I started writing about how badly my husband and I need our upcoming vacation. The first one we’ve taken in seven years. Then my daughter called from the bathroom, “Mommy, I went poo-poo.”

Of course she did. Here we go again. All I needed was a few minutes at the computer to finish a blog, but I’ve got to clean her bottom and help her wash her hands. Ugh. At least she is potty trained. Which made me think that I really should go ahead and change my son’s pants before he got a diaper rash. So I did.

As I finished dressing my son, my daughter tells me Sarah, her Baby Alive doll, had poo-pooed in her diaper. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t wipe another bottom. Pick up any more poop. Fasten any more diapers. Sarah’s going to have to sit in her stink until after this blog is done.

Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful that I have two healthy children and a pug and a Baby Alive with healthy digestive systems, but my husband and I need a break. Just for a few days.

We need dinner on the beach. With a glass of wine. Or two. Without worrying about our son waking us up at 7 in the morning with his PJs full of poop.

I need a refreshing five days on the beach so I can get back home and tackle my next Pinterest project and plan our next vacation. Which will probably not be for another seven years – this time with our kids – who will literally be 100% potty trained.

Melanie Medina is a Senior Communications Specialist at Texas Health Resources and is counting the days till vacation.