I come from a family where
girls don’t poop.  They don’t poop, they don’t pass gas, and they don’t
really even go to the bathroom.  There’s just a vague “going to freshen
up” moment, or one leaves to put on lipstick or SOMETHING.  But to
actually poop?  How embarrassing.  And to pass gas?  Completely out of
the question.  I’ve literally never heard my mother use the word
“fart”.  Ever.  In a dire, dire emergency, she might use the word
“flatulence”.  But “fart”?  Never. 

So. 
Imagine my horror at every baby shower I’ve attended, or those other
rare moments when I was trapped in a room with a bunch of mothers…and
they are all chatting about…POOP.  I would feel my face burning with
the shame of their embarrassment.  Because even if they weren’t
embarrassed about their topic of conversation…well, they should’ve
been.  These women would encourage their babies to poop, smell their
bums with a “Yes!  You did poop!”, and refer to their children as
“poopy pants” and the like.  Have some pride, people!  Seriously.  I
would swear that WHEN I HAVE MY OWN CHILDREN (I’m capitalizing for
effect — imagine a loud pronunciation from one who doesn’t know crap
about having children) — WHEN I HAVE MY OWN CHILDREN I WILL NEVER
CONVERSE ABOUT POOP.  CERTAINLY NOT WITH MY HUSBAND BECAUSE POOP IS NOT
SEXY.

oooookaaaay.  Because, 7 months after giving birth, I care SOOO much about sexy.  Riiiight. 

In
my defense, it started slowly.  The doctors and nurses were always
asking about Raines’ poop.   And, the kid poops all of the time.  It
ends up being on the forefront of your mind, which makes not discussing
it that much harder.  Still, I tried, for a while anyway, to refrain
from the “Hi honey!  Welcome home — Raines had the BIGGEST poop
today!”  I’m not saying that those words never came out of my mouth,
but I tried.  At some point, however…it started.  I now talk about
poop.  I talk about it in my Mom’s group, I talk about it with my
husband, I google it, I read discussion boards on the various types of
poop (and yes – bananas makes poop look like it has little black worms
in it), I caught myself talking about it at a party…and now I’m
blogging about it.

The
realization that I am now a poop conversationalist really hit me
yesterday.  Lucy and Nate were up visiting the cottage with their
adorable little one, Ainsley (pic above).   Raines was in Sarah’s
jumperoo (And yes, Sarah — we washed it!) when I picked him up.   He
had been making little faces, turning red, etc.  I immediately knew it
was going to be bad.  As I pulled him out, poop was now all over my
arm, all over his back, all over the jumperoo and on the porch. 
Everyone jumped up.  “Get the changing pad!  Get the changing pad!” I
yelled.  I put Raines down to change the diaper….and the poop was up
and over the front of the diaper, the back and coming out of both
sides.   Nate helpfully starts commentating, “It’s a 10 wiper…no,
it’s a 15 – no it’s at least a 20 wiper!  We have a 20 wiper, folks!” 
Ainsley comes over to investigate.  She points at Raines, “Le Poop!” 
she says. 

Le
Poop.  I love that.  I need to remember that French-ifying any gross
word helps to soften the blow.   Not that I’m still hung up on the word
“poop”.  As I move forward with this whole parenting thing, I realize
that I am, in fact, moving forward.  Sure, it’s hard to imagine that
using words like “poop” constitutes moving forward, and sure, I’m
breaking one of my pre-kid rules….but …I don’t…care.  It doesn’t
matter.  I don’t need to be that girl anymore.  So when Mike called
that night, I have to admit that I started the conversation with “Hi
Honey!  Raines had the BIGGEST poop today!”  And, my sweetheart of a
husband, actually was excited to hear.