One For The Scat Fans
Something I think most non-parents suspect about parenting that is actually true: parents are much more likely to come into contact with other people's feces than non-parents.

Like most things of which non-parents have an inkling--sleep deprivation, the constant whining, the gerbil-like instinct to devour--there is almost no way for a person without children to understand the scope or the depth of impact of these (and other) parent-specific syndromes.

Yes, the reflexive, mechanical truth is obvious: diaper changing leads to man-on-poo contact. What's hard to really convey is the extent to which said poo becomes a source of constant attention, speculation and conversation.

I know for a fact my childless readers have never (hopefully) asked the following question regarding another human being: "What did his poop look like?"

I know, I know. It's inconceivable that such a thing would ever come up. But if you're considering a trip to the doctor to get your hands on the prescription-strength antifungal ass-balm, you will ask.

Why do I bring it up? Because right now I'm in the midst of an unexpected man-on-poo situation. Not with my still-diapered youngest, oh no, that would be predictable and manageable. No, this is with my middle child, the one without the absorbent undergarments that keep the excretia off the upholstery. My frustration is your misfortune, dear readers.

You're thinking I should be past the unexpectedness of the poo experience, but when you're presumably potty-trained three year old soils himself in the cell-phone store, I think that qualifies as a situation.

I'm sure there's something deeply psychological about it all, this trend of potty-training reversal (and yes, it is a trend). Something to do with his older brother going to school and being shut out from all school-related conversations and activities. I don't know. I'm sure there's something Dr. Phil could say to me to fix this all up within a six-minute segment between commercial breaks and still have time to convince me that I'm a total failure as a parent/human being. Jesus, I hate that bald motherfucker.

Upon further reflection, yes, maybe it's partially my fault for teaching my son to shit on command. But come on, it kills at parties.

One thing I now know doesn't work and I think it would be beneficial to share: rubbing his nose in it doesn't help. I learned the hard way that dogs and kids don't necessarily respond to the same things, discipline-wise. Unless we're talking about the rolled-up newspaper, but that's highly situation-specific.

And lastly I would like to point out--honestly--that as I type this my excrement-befouled 18-month old son is standing next to me, so this is all being produced with the proper background aroma.

I apologize. I got nothin' else. The Tom Hanks thing from yesterday has still got me a little thrown. Between that and the giddy buildup to MPH's 100th post, I'm completely spent emotionally.


This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.6


Pops

- posted by Pops @ 9:36 AM