An Inconvenient Poop

So, you’re saying to yourself, “Self? WHY, after being away for a week, would she want to talk about POOP?”

I mean, there is so much MORE I could talk about. Stinkerbelle’s first meeting with Santa. Mock-snowball fights indoors with foam blocks. A newly discovered high-steppin’ Flashdance expression of joy. Her inherent skepticism of magicians.

But NO. I am leading off with POOP.

“Why?” you plead with yourself. “For the love of doG, WHY?”

Well, the simple answer is… HELLO. LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF. I AM THE MOM OF A TODDLER.

So there you go.

It has taken me a year of fancy footwork, finagling, begging, tearing my hair out, and carefully calculated scheduling of my days to finally, FINALLY get my daughter to nap for a decent amount of time, just once per day, and just after lunch. It has been WORK, I tell you.

I was enjoying that 90-minute-to-2-hour stretch of time. I could work out. I could do actual paying work. I COULD SHOWER. It was mommy bliss, I tell you truly. An oasis is Me-dom in a day full of toys all over the floor, endless baby videos, and interpreting baby sign language.

AND THEN CAME THE POOP.

For whatever reason, Stinkerbelle’s biological clock has decided that she needs to have a poop in the early afternoon. Usually it’s at 2 pm. But if the fates are toying with me, it can show up anytime between 1 and 3. And it’s not one of those wee little rabbit doot-style poops. Oh no. It is a GREAT BIG HONKING BIOHAZARD POOP.

And I would not mind, except for it WAKES HER UP. From the middle of her afternoon nap. And it makes her cross, and sleep deprived, and it does very little for me, either, if I am truthful. She is woken up with a start, and therefore has not had enough rest to get her through until bedtime.

And that means the Insane Circus Clown Posse Baby of Doom shows up at around 4:30 and begins rampaging through my life like a pink cotton-clad nightmare.

So yeah. The 2 pm poop? I am not a fan.

I have come to believe that it has been sent to punish me. Perhaps it’s for all the indiscretions of my youth (and they are myriad). It could be because I don’t sort my garbage nearly well enough. Possibly it’s for the fact that I got drunk WAY too much in university. It could be because of that time I stole a chocolate bar from the tuck shop. Maybe it’s payback for that time I broke into a national institution of learning at 3 am in a stumbling, drunken, boy-crazy search for Manitoba Bisons. (I found them. In case you were wondering.)

It is hard to say, really. But it is a PAIN in my ARSE. And, I believe, a pain in my daughter’s too, because, hello? It’s her diaper.

So while nobody likes to change a poopy diaper, this one? It is COMPLETELY harshing my mellow. It is not only a stinky diaper, but it is INCONVENIENT. And that is the whole inconvenient truth.