Waste Deep and Without a Paddle

Little Man is a prolific pooper…like I feed this kid, and I have no idea how he relieves his body weight in manure on a daily basis. I regularly berate myself for not working some type of deal with a local farm or something because sheep, cows, and goats have nothin’ on Mr. Man.

 

(World Animal Foundation Animals: “So, you say your poops are more stupendous…Thems fightin’ words…”)

If my son only blesses me three times a day, I consider it a win. And, I’m not talking the cute and sparse deer pebble ones that stink up an entire room before you’ve registered what happened. Each diaper fugitive is substantial enough to give my son the appearance of a banana hammock stretching down to the knees of his exceptionally long legs.

His timing is impeccable too, and I have to admit I’m kinda in awe. My son could have pooped three of his remarkably substantial loads before his nap, but still manage to trot into the hallway stating in a surprisingly accurate Brooklyn accent, “I made stinkers,” within ten minutes of me leaving him upstairs to his own devises. Today he even managed to poop five minutes before I took him upstairs, and once again within his designated time frame. When that happened, I knew he did it just to mess with me.

(The Great Gatsby understands how he uses his personal biohazard as an intimidation tactic.)

The exclusively formula fed Warrior Queen is constipated…because she is formula fed. And, let me tell you the production that occurs every time she relieves herself. Every other day she will suddenly start screaming so loudly the neighbors likely hear. Some of it seemed so painful we began dosing her with prunes every other day…that helped soften things, but not the screaming. She generally likes making an equally big deal out of life’s big and small displeasures alike. I guess pooping can be added to the tally.

(A screaming poop face like this emphatically communicates she means business!)

We don’t really use baby food; both kids went right to the table food we were eating in increasing sized bites as the they grew. What began as morseled tastes for my daughter is now an impressive quantity…I’m not sure where she puts it. Today for lunch she ate an entire peanut butter sandwich, some apple, and mashed potatoes and gravy. She still polished off half an eight ounce bottle shortly after…must be from my side of the family…Little Man has the same storage capacity with his daddy’s tall, lean build.

(This is kinda how I see mealtime in my house. Thank you, Pandora’s box Wikipedia.)

Warrior Queen is up to consistently eating two solid meals a day, which means more poop…like a lot more. A few days ago they were annoying shart type messes spaced within ten minutes of each other. There was barely enough to clean, but is certainly wasn’t gas; and I was befuddled that a streak of nothing could smell as bad as it did. Things took a turn today, however, when the children committed to a truly unnecessary competition of who can provide the most dumps in a 12 hour period. Warrior Queen started strong, but she ultimately had to relinquish the title promise to the reigning shit champion…It was thrilling to experience. In anticipation I waited to see who would come out the winner. Sadly it was not the underdog this time…I’ve always liked an underdog.

At the end of a day that I could have easily done without, I’m left to consider: How would one manage to work this skill into a resume? Certainly both children show an propensity for politics.

 

A Day Like Any Other

Typical day, my four-month-old daughter awakens after a full eight or nine hours of sleep.  Such an occurrence isn’t every night, but often enough that when she deviates I become disgruntled.  My two-and-some change-year-old son joins us at almost seven.  This occurrence is less reliable, but happens enough that when he deviates I become disgruntled…or maybe I just appreciate sleep…profusely, and prefer to ease into my morning…even if it officially begins in the five realm.

I have yet another cold, although this one appears to be more garden variety.  I don’t know what the problem is, but I’ve had a steady stream of illness since mid July.  I think I’ve been sick more in the last few months than in the previous two years.  But, this one allows me to function, so I really shouldn’t complain no matter how gratifying it might be to do so.

By seven-thirty Warrior Queen was sort of snoozing, and Little Man finished his morning dress preparation routine that included commentary about the baby monitor camera.  Clearly discussing its working condition is fodder to consume five minutes before he tells me he needs cream to make the itchy on the bottom of his foot go away.  The final changing table discussion an assertion that he poops a lot.  I concur enthusiastically before we brush his teeth.

My son wanted Mini Wheats, which is lovely because I wasn’t feeling the whole eggs ‘n’ toast thing this morning.  Funny thing though, I always celebrate that he wants cereal, yet it becomes a cereagedon coating on the floor every time.  Regardless of the plethora of reinforcement, amnesia or delusion, I’m not sure which, washes over me in private celebrations when he requests it for breakfast.  It doesn’t seem to matter how large or substantial the actual cereal seems to be.  It will have the same result:  an unnecessary amount of particles to clean off our floor.

(Turbosquid.com’s image could be my son’s breakfast, and it would still be in crumbly pieces surrounding his chair.)

Did you know that Mini Wheats is notorious for a hideous amount of debris?  I do…because such knowledge is fortified every time he eats it.  This typical morning was no different.

Developmental milestones are a miraculous thing, but not when it means my son can open the bathroom door by himself or pry a Tupperware container I struggle to separate.  It was just a second of me attempting to retrieve milk from the refrigerator when I hear my blessed and quite dexterous son say, “Big mess.”  I look over.  Yes it was.  It was a big, big mess of whole grain goodness coated in sugar all over the floor.  At least I didn’t have to nag Little Man to clean.

As I was sweeping, my intermittently chill daughter starts griping that I haven’t walked over and smiled at her for thirty seconds.  Moments like these typical ones immediately conjure Fatal Attraction.  I can almost hear Warrior Queen, “I will not be ignored, Dan!”

(Thank you Pinterest for reminding me that we will not be providing this particular animal companion for our children.)

After reaffixing her pacifier, I marvel at the control her smiles have over my mental state.  I find myself humming before I hear her indicating that she is in the process of relieving her bowels.  I wait for her to finish…because sometimes I cease and desist from repeating mistakes.

But, as soon as she is flat on the changing table, it becomes apparent that this particular nature’s call was a blow-out.  Okay, this piece of my morning is not so typical, but I appreciate a party like anyone.  Little Man, however, decides that he requires front row seats to this particular brand of celebratory performance art, and, oh good, he brought snacks!

Even sick with residual sleep deprivation, I know where this is going; it doesn’t matter how many times I tell Mr. Man to eat at the table.  It’s sweet; he wants to be with his family, and I’d find it touching if I wasn’t elbow deep in poop, and he wasn’t harboring what will be a part of a poor excuse for a balanced breakfast in the carpet.  Typical morning, typical result…full bowl of fucking Mini Wheats and their entrails all over and imbedded in the carpet.  Fortunately, I didn’t have to nag Little Man to clean, but there is only so much a helpful toddler can do before the situation is exponentially worse.

I drag our prehistoric vacuum from the closet.  I’m not sure when it was purchased, but I know this is a relic from my mother-in-law’s childhood.  It still works, but my lack of engineering proficiency translates to more time than I should admit attaching the pieces to proper working order.  Even all these hours later, I’m surprised the thing didn’t explode on me.

We left the house at the appropriate time.  I know about glaring at gift horses and all, but how did that happen?  I even managed to eat breakfast.

(Thank you, sales2.com, that’s exactly the sentiment I was thinking at the time.)

The traveling entertainment was typical as well.  My son discussed more thoroughly about the need for cream to squelch his itchy foot.  Of course, he reminded me that he poops a lot…because I’m prone to forget such things…  I shouldn’t be dismissive though because several times he gave me his tell tale drawn out “Oh,” indicating the gravity of his agreement.  Our outing was not all that dramatic if one were to exclude the older toddler I had to reprimand for almost beaning my infant daughter in the head with a toy…on purpose.  He apologized rather easily, but likely it was due to the voice coming from this:

(Couldn’t have explained it better myself, charl-gfx.deviantart.com.)

While playing with the Jetsonesque doll house furniture, Little Man brought me the washer and dryer, as well as a couple of toilets.  As he carefully lined them in front of me in a very specific order, he sang, “This is the way we go poop poop.”  It seems this was his first lyrical creation for what may very well be the beginning of many, many fine future productions.

We arrived home without incident after a couple hours of play.  My son a bit punchy toward quiet time, but the house is still standing, so all things considered…  Warrior Queen rolled to her back for the first time today, not so typical, but I might be more impressed that I actually remembered to give her tummy time.  My accomplishment aside, still pretty cool, although not quite as cool as my son eliciting my fierce girl’s first belly chuckles yesterday.

Last night I lamented over text the cyclical nature of my current compromised constitution.  She commented that maybe I’m spreading myself too thin.  Maybe, but it isn’t like I encounter all that much stress…typically.

All’s Well that…Ends

It was inevitable.  Actually, few things are as inevitable as this, yet I found myself watching the initiation of events occur in disbelieving slow motion.  The entire two-and-a-half hour car ride to see my husband’s family was blissful, aside from the brief stop to reattach the car seat after my son worked his magic.  My daughter slept because she’s good that way.  My son slept briefly, but when awake entertained himself with passing vehicles and singing before sleeping the remaining half-hour.  My husband and I chatted like married couples together over a decade do…when they still like each other despite mutual sleep deprivation.  The party also went well.  No other children but ours were present, but Mr. Man didn’t seem to notice.  Warrior Queen was vaguely unhappy all afternoon, but that isn’t terribly new.  She can be that way.  But, with every passing minute of content experienced by my family of four, an increasing creep of foreboding seeped.

We were thirty minutes into our return home.  My son was telling tales of the traffic.  I humored him with my agreement because I had no idea what he was saying.  Little Man was increasingly past the threshold of exhaustion, so what started as good humored giggles and pointing, amounted to other less endearing forms of entertainment.

My son gagged himself, belly chuckles with each more involved effort.  It was attention seeking, so my husband and I ignored him knowing full well where such things were headed.  We braced ourselves, and looked back that final time to see patriotic themed vomit flowing from his mouth from the berries he had earlier.  Cheer turned to sobbing spasms as we sought a rest area.  Kid clean-up was my responsibility; my husband taxed with the car.  Both were reasonably uneventful.  My daughter continued to sleep in the car…miracles do exist…  Mr. Man finally getting a grip, demonstrating all the sweetness that comes when a child wishes to lessen the potential angered rage of parents.  Tired and covered from random second hand vomit debris, I held my son as he cuddled into me; we waited for my husband to finish.

With everyone buckled, we were once again on our way home, almost an hour delayed.  The remaining journey blessedly uneventful if you exclude Little Man picking his nose and wiping his findings on the window.  My husband repeatedly pointing to the residual protein spill on my dress for the remaining duration of the drive…because that never gets old…

Once home, my daughter immediately awakened, screaming.  All annoying events include poop, this event no exception.  I happened to change her mid movement, but even as I anticipated the final remnants, it oozed everywhere and splattered, some on my eyelid. Mr. Man eventually turned in. Warrior Queen eventually stopped screaming. I eventually achieved a shower.  The final pieces of the evening a blur before I was able to greet my eyelids, but nothing was else was more welcome.

Sweet Dreams

This just has to be documented for what I desperately hope isn’t the beginning of many more similar tales, but I suspect this will be old hat soon…sigh.

My husband is wonderful, entertaining our two-year-old little man for almost the entire day while I tended to the Warrior Queen, which amounted to feeding her and lounging on the sofa with a sprawled infant on my chest.  I even managed to eat lunch vaguely within the lunch hour realm.  Consequently, tonight I was in charge of Mr. Man’s bedtime routine.

My son was on my lap brushing his teeth before I took over when I noticed the entire front of his shorts were wet.  Great sleuth I am assumed correctly it was urine.  Well, that’s a puzzle.  I check his diaper, and half of it is unattached.  That is also a puzzle.  Then I notice brown crust on his lower leg, yup, poop.  That was the final puzzle prompting me to call downstairs to my husband asking why there was poop on our son’s leg.  Our house hollering virtually overlapped with my husband indicating that our son had excavated poop out of his diaper and threw it on the floor in front of the family room book shelf.  I was sitting all evening in that very room, so how craptastic at parenting am I that I was oblivious to my son engaging in a fecal drop ‘n’ roll in front of me?  Perhaps some questions are best left unanswered.

Hitting the Fan

I don’t think I truly could call myself a parent before yesterday.  Apparently, a two-year-old sleep regression is a thing, and Little Man is in the midst of one.  I suspected from the get-go this wasn’t a transition eliminating his naps entirely, but he isn’t napping nonetheless, despite his marked Walking Dead audition sequence for the last week.

Until yesterday his sleep deprived state mostly had him wanting to increase his Mommy time with me reading or singing, sometimes just sitting next to him while he plays quietly on the floor.  He would save his death and destruction until Daddy returned home from work.  Yesterday, however, the day of his delirious chaos initiated immediately after returning from his favorite playground, prompted me to send him to a very early nap.

With the monitor sound on it was a strange nap forty-five minutes in.  As has been the case for the last week, he refused to lay down, choosing to stand and sing to himself, but then he professed squeaks of displeasure.  Maybe he pooped.  I climbed the stairs to check.  Nope.  I quickly reassured him, and subsequently left the room.  Another forty-five minutes into his performance had him crying suddenly.  A bit more swiftly I climb the stairs to a diaper greeting me on the white carpeted floor.  Within the open diaper was a rather substantial offering, and the room stank.  Upon my entry, Little Man increases his wails thinking I’m mad at him.  I can’t say if any emotion registered, but I plucked my son who was giving his best impression of a lobster retrieved from a tank.  Starfish limbs and me holding him a bit out from me, I take him to the changing table.  My son is screaming, “Diaper, diaper,” with tears streaking his face.  The poop on his fingers made him all the more distraught; within seconds he wiped them on my bare arm.

My son was bathed…again, but without the earlier dramatics of him flooding our bathroom.  Even with a new diaper he continued to chant, “Diaper, diaper.”  When I indicated my awareness of the full one on his floor, he stopped.  Surprisingly, there was no poop anywhere on his crib or the floor.  Not sure how that was managed, but sometimes it’s better not to question heavenly gifts.

Another day of a failed napping attempt, and we sat on the sofa; Little Man selecting the new potty training book I purchased to get his head in the game.  He’s been obsessed with it for three days now.  Huge smiles as I repeated the story, and my son uttering his toddler articulation of, “Shit.”  I tried deluding myself for a few of his utterances, but realized I’d have to address the situation in such a matter that didn’t perpetuate this first ever bit of profanity usage, or nurture the path for continued repetitions of colorful words I didn’t realize he overheard me saying.  It was a successful intervention for the moment, but considering that it reinforced my suspicion that he now can and does say, “Shit,” I probably shouldn’t celebrate this particular behavior management achievement.

Once things were cleaned and settled, I took both cherubs for a drive so my son would possibly sleep for a bit.  The deprivation seems to be taking quite a toll on Mr. Man, and I was exhausted after a week of two children rising early and no break during the day.  The thirty minute snooze wasn’t enough for him, but the house was still standing by Little Man’s bedtime, so it was a good call.

We entered the house; my husband home early knowing I hadn’t trusted leaving my son scurrying around while I showered poop residue off my person.  He had a few minutes of work to complete, and the Warrior Queen expressed her desire for a bottle.  Within a minute of me gazing lovingly at her beautiful face after the feeding, she spits-up all over my torso, offering a wide smile in its aftermath.  I guess she wanted to get in on the action, and, really, once one is smeared with fecal matter, what’s another bodily secretion?