Warning: This Post Is Full of Poop

6 09 2008

Maybe it’s the Captain Underpants books. Maybe it’s all foreshadowing a career in internal medicine. Or in scatology. Maybe it’s just their age. Just a phase. Or maybe they’ve inherited my (until now) deeply concealed low brow sense of humour. The sense of humour that saw me nearly pee my pants laughing when I watched Beavis and Butthead Do America. All eleven times. The same sense of humour that sends me into giggle fits every time I contemplate calling our future puppy Fartface McGillicuddy. Or every time I write the word ‘poop’ in the blog. This post could have me convulsing on the floor by the time it’s finished.

Whatever the reason, my sweet little girls are gigantic fans of bathroom humour, and find bodily functions both fascinating and hysterical. Neener is in awe of farts. Armpit farts, mouth farts, and most of all, real farts. She laughs her head off when she farts. She laughs her head off when anyone farts. And she laughs her head off when she smells anything stinky because she feels compelled to speculate ‘What’s that smell? Smells like a fart.’ For Roo, it’s all about the poop. Ever since we explained the process of digestion from start to finish, she’s been obsessed with figuring out ‘What kind of poop‘ everyone and everything has. Dog poop on the sidewalk? ‘What kind of poop did that dog have?’ Bird poop on the car? ‘What is that poop made of?’ And not a single one of Squiggle’s diaper changes goes by without Roo’s close visual inspection and educated guesswork as to what Squiggles might have pooped out. Which would be fine, if only she didn’t require my participation in poop identification quite so often. Let me tell you, trying to use a public washroom with a five year old junior scatologist with no voice volume control is an exercise in mild embarrassment and fast exits. The last time, I could hear the woman in the stall next to us laughing as Roo loudly wondered if I was going to have a big corn poop. I told her I was not. She said she thought I was. We argued about it for a few minutes until I finally, exasperatedly, agreed that yes, I would have a corn poop because of the corn I ate the day before, but I was not going to have a corn poop right now, here in the bathroom at Mac Donald’s. Corn poop is Roo’s absolute favourite. Probably because it’s the only poop she can identify all by herself quickly and easily. Baked potatoe poop, spaghetti poop, rice poop? They all look the same. But you can’t miss a corn poop. Especially when you’re staring in the bowl wearing your junior scatologist hat. When she – or anyone else – has a corn poop, Roo is positively elated. And then there is Squiggles, following in the footsteps of her sisters. Nothing cracks up my nine month old baby more than taking off her dirty diapers all by herself, or staging a first-class craptastrophe in a swanky restaurant, the way she did last night when we all went out to celebrate a highly successful week of school and work for the Blister family.

The good, proper mother inside me knows I should wipe this toilet humour out of our lives. That I should make a big deal about how gross it is, and forbid my daughters from talking about, much less laughing about farts and poop. But the bad mother inside me, the one who wants to name our dog Fartface McGillicuddy, also wants to pull my t-shirt over the back of my head, and go around growling and shouting “I am the great Cornholio! I need T.P. for my Bunghole!” Which I’m sure Neener and Roo would love, but I know it would open a Pandora’s outhouse of Cornholio impersonations. And I’d be too busy peeing myself laughing to put a stop to it. So, I keep both goody-two-shoes prude mother and the Great Cornholio tightly bound and gagged inside of me, and I let mediocre mom handle it. Whenever Neener and Roo go off on toilet tangents, I frown slightly and try to change the subject. But inside, and just below the surface of my mock scowl, I’m howling right along with them.




3 responses

6 09 2008

When Nathan’s resisting getting dressed, he gets attacked by the Head-Eating Monster. The bottom of the shirt is the monster’s mouth and the neck of the shirt is the bum.

“Here comes the Head-Eating Monster. It’s going to eat Nathan’s head. Oh no! It’s eating Nathan’s head! Om nom nom nom nom. The monster ate Nathan’s head! Nathan’s head is gone! Oh, wait. The monster is pooping. Here it comes. The monster is pooping out Nathan’s head. There’s Nathan’s head. The monster pooped out Nathan’s head!”

7 09 2008

Ahahhahahahahaha, I can just picture that. I bet it cracks Nathan up. And it serves a practical purpose!

7 09 2008

OMG! I’m sitting in Starbucks surrounded by hoards of teenagers. Trying to keep myself from bursting with laughter while I pee my pants on the floor.

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