I would soil myself with genuine poo—just to get a big ol’ laugh out of you.
May 28, 2004We’re almost at the other end (end!) of Henry’s Adventures in Pooping—we made it through the rapids, and now we’re wading through the occasional runlet. I just really wanted to say "runlet." Runlet! There!
You know (she writes, introducing her Theme for the Day), I used to think there was some way, when my child got sick, that I could avoid catching it. I’ll just wash my hands, I thought! Why don't other people think of that! I’ll wash and wash--and wash some more. Obviously!
This morning, after I changed Henry for the 3rd time, I continued to smell poop. I looked in Henry’s diaper, which fresh and new as a spring morning. So I looked on my hands. Nope. My shirt. Relatively unsoiled. The poop smell lingered—it was as if there was poop right under my nose. But of course we all know there was no poop there, because a poop mustache would be too much insult to endure. (Insert your "Dirty Sanchez" joke here. You know you want to. You filthy, filthy thing.)
No, the poop was not under my nose. No. It was on my nose.
I glanced in the mirror, and there! Right on the tip of my nose! Poop! Why am I admitting this in a public forum? It was only a dab. But isn’t that enough? How much poop can a person allow to sit on their nose before they flee their home in horror and disgust? How did it get there? I’ve been washing and washing with all the paranoid vigor that I imagined before I had this child, and yet somehow it managed to evade me, to travel up from my hands all the way to the center of my face.
My point is, once the poop has made it to your nose, you’re pretty much doomed. I am doomed. Unless the Birthday Fairies see fit to spare me from the sickness.
Gasp in amazement at how subtly I mention that it’s my birthday! Why do you think I’m linking to flattering pictures of myself and practically begging for reassurance that I’m not as old and haggard as I feel? I’m transparent. And 35. Thirty-five. Thirty. Five. I’m not sure I’m so happy about this turn of events. But there’s nothing I can do about it—the alternatives are so much less appealing. Anyway, it’s there already, like the poop on the end of my nose. No matter how I scrub and scrub.
Reader Comments (23)
Savor the moment.
I hope you have a very non-poopy birthday!
Just last week I had poop on me (a disastrous attempt at using the potty....not me, my 3 year old....and yes, he's 3 and still making disastrous attempts to use the potty) and as I stood there cleaning up I felt so utterly deflated as a human being.
It was a definite low point in my mothering life. But you, you handled it with such grace...and on your birthday no less!
Happy Birthday!
(I turn 35 this year too. It's it great to Hurt-All-The-Time?? Or is it just me?)
D.
Poop on the nose. I can't say I've been there but I have had it under my fingernails. Ewwww!
Enjoy your birthday. Hoopla! Excitement! Someone else doing the dishes! you know--the whole nine yards.
But happy birthday! I'd sure like to believe that 35 is young. In fact, this is what I choose to believe.
And at least you went 35 years without getting poop on your nose. Or your post implies that. And that's something!
2. You are lovely, and 35 is a dandy age to be. Why, you're a young'un compared to all the former castmembers of "Friends", and they stayed 27 forever!
3. I can't top the poop on the nose, but on Sunday morning my husband kindly let me sleep in, only to wake me at 9 to request assistance. The babyman had taken a poop on the floor of his bedroom, and I had to clean it up. It was on the foam alphabet mat. On the X. X marks the poop. My son must have remarkable aim, as well as an advanced sense of humor for a 16 month old.
4. I hope you didn't get sick. Having the goopy poopies is no way to spend a birthday.
You've gotten married and had a child by 35. I'm 37 with neither wife, nor child, nor propects for either. Pathetic, I know. So count your (poopy) blessings; there's always somebody worse off.
I looked at the picture. You're *very* cute.Thirty-five, Shmirty-five. Who cares. You look good.
Mmmm. Finslippy.
Happy Birthday, by the way. From my daughter who just ran into the desk two times in a row. Now there's a girl that'll poop on your nose.
Happy Birthday!
LittleMissCantBeWrongEver!
Just for the record, I'm 36. And though you have youth on your side, I can safely say I've made it this far without ever getting poop on my face.