What the Dickens?

I feel like it's maybe time for a poop story.

You may feel that it is never, in fact, time for a poop story. And that's OK. 

Now you know where this is going.

Much like the penis in the plantation shutters, this is the kind of story that makes Nick shake his head and think there is something very wrong with me. But then I remind him that he adores me and so really, what's wrong with him?

Pretty sure he'd be happy if I never spoke of feces again. But (butt! ha!) how does one go through life like that?

A couple summers ago, we rented a little cabin near a lake in Maine.

It was small and cute, two bedrooms one bathroom, just perfect for the four of us, with trees around and a fire pit. It was a short walk to a cute little lake beach. Big lake, cute little beach, I mean.

Now, I've never considered myself a person with particularly unusual bowel movements. And I don't actually think it was me. It was the shape of the toilet bowl.

See, for some reason, my poops just wouldn't go down the toilet.

This didn't happen to anyone else in the family. I asked.

But still.

There didn't seem to be much to be done about it besides going out to the woods and getting a stick to poke it down. And then I'd take the stick back out and fling it into the woods.

I made sure to get sticks from the same area and throw them deep into the trees so that I could make sure that I wasn't picking up the same stick. And so that the kids were not in danger of gathering poo-poking-sticks to roast marshmallows.

Anyway, this one day I realized that my intransigent poop looked like a penis and testicles. Petite testicles, but still.

It wasn't the Virgin Mary on toast, but naturally, I was dying to show someone.

As you might imagine, the audience for this sort of thing is limited.

Nick is a hard no. In fact, India is really the only one. If there's something particularly extraordinary,  will tell each other and are always willing to look.

But Nick and the kids were down at the lake. And I certainly wasn't going to save it.

So I jumped on the WhatsApp group with two dear high school friends. I told them the situation and that I was dying, dyyyyyyyying to show someone.

And they were both like, hell yes, send it over, we want to see!

So I sent a photo, and I must say, they were impressed. 

And then I went out to the woods and got a new poking stick.

The one for the strong of stomach

This is a rather revolting tale, so if you don't like reading gross stuff, stop now.

Really.

If, on the other hand, you enjoy schadenfreude, scatology and/or emetology, then do I have a gift for you!

You've been warned. On with the story.

The other morning I walked into the kitchen to find Nick shaking his head and scrubbing his hands with scalding water.

He said, "That dog is so disgusting."

Wanda, our scroungy hound, will lunge for any old rotting piece of pizza, tail of shrimp, or whatever else she may find in the park. Regardless of how well fed she is here.

She just can't resist the crust of an old bagel. She will not drop it on command. 

Nick or I can generally pry her mouth open and pull out whatever it is. One night she got something she really wanted and absolutely refused to open her jaws. So Nick held her head and I put my fingers over her nose until she had to open her mouth to breathe.

Ha.

Yah, so on this particular morning, she stuck her head into a bush and pulled her head out chomping something. Nick prised her mouth open to remove...poo.

That dog was eating poo.

Which he was vigorously scrubbing off his hands on that fateful morning.

And then he left for work.

Jordan went upstairs to get online for school, and India headed to the living room to open her books while I made tea.

And suddenly she yelled in utter panic, "MAMA! MAMA COME HERE MAMA!" 

I started running towards her.

"WANDA THREW UP!"

On the whole, I'm terrible with vomit, but dog vomit, I've learned, tends to not be so bad, because it's mainly a big blob of dog kibble. It's pale, easy to clean up, and doesn't soak into the rug.

Unless.

Unless your fucking dog has eaten poo.

I grabbed some paper towels and headed into the living room to find that Wanda had puked on my favorite carpet. One my parents bought in Tehran in 1979 while my brother and I climbed on piles of carpets as tall as mountains to us.

We spent the day in a carpet store, eating biscuits and drinking tea while our parents perused carpets and bargained.

I approached the vomit to find that it was larger and more spread out than normal. 

And. It smelled really, really bad.

For this I would need gloves. And way more paper towels. I ran to the kitchen and returned with such items.

I started working on the mess and immediately began retching. I got up, and, realizing I wouldn't make it to the bathroom, headed for the front door.

Yes. There I was, running for the door trying to hold in my vomit, clutching paper towels soaked in semi-digested, regurgitated poo.

I didn't make it.

However, I did manage to mainly vomit into my hands.

When India realized what was happening, she began to retch.

I yelled, "TAKE WANDA OUTSIDE!" Figuring that if there was any more puking done by anyone, at least it would be outside.

Then I yelled a bunch of profanity just to make myself feel better.

Jordan came running down the stairs to see what the commotion was. 

He, too, is a sympathy puker, and I was not about to add him to the mix. So I told him Wanda had puked, it was terrible, we were fine, and to go back upstairs.

Then I cleaned up my vomit and went back to work on the rug.

Some people, maybe most people, might be more concerned about the state of their dog than their rug. But I was mad. Ooh, I was so mad.

If you're going to be an asshole and eat poo, you'd better not puke on my carpet.

I was blotting and wiping with wet paper towels, and then I recalled that soda water takes stains out. I looked, but we didn't have any.

We did, however, have white wine, and I remembered reading that white wine will take red wine out of a carpet.

So I poured a bunch of white wine on the stain.

And it was only 9:45 in the morning, but I also remembered that 7:30 am is 5:00 pm in New Delhi, so that would make it whatever time of the evening there. 

I poured myself a big damn glass.

Then I let the dog back in.

How to become number one in a hot party show

Image credit: CDC

I feel the need to mention that if you are bothered by the scatological, or have never had a parasite or talked about your fecal matter as casually as saying, "Please pass the salt," then this post may not be for you.

So. You've been warned.

Jordan somehow developed Giardia.

I knew it. When the doctor called and said she was shocked, and that she'd learned something from the whole experience, I felt vindicated. Because I knew it!

See, I had Giardia in Peace Corps. It was 20 years ago, but I recognized it. If you yourself have never had the misfortune, I will tell you that there is this particular malodorous flatulence that accompanies it. I say particular and not particularly, because it's specific.

Yes. So my son began farting and I was like, I know those farts!

I may not be a sommelier or professional perfumer, but I do have a skill, if I may say so myself.

I was kind of reluctant to take him to the doctor just on the basis of his flatulence, but his annual physical was approaching, so timing was perfect. When the doctor asked if I had any concerns I told her about his vile gas, and how I'd like to have stool samples done.

She looked at Jordan for confirmation, and so I said, "Right? You've been having terrible farts?"

And he nodded and said, "Oh, yeah."

She questioned doing so without diarrhea, stomach pain, etc. But I continued to express concern and certainty, and she sent us home with three little vials of liquid and instructions.

"What are we going to do with those, Mama?"

"We're going to put your poop in them."

"HOW?"

So I explained how we were going to put some wax paper on the toilet seat and then I would take it off and scoop little pieces of his poop into each of the vials until I got to the red line.

I was afraid he'd be freaked out. Au contraire. He was pretty psyched.

Had I ever done this before? He wanted to know. As if one might need special skills. I assured him I had. When? How? He wanted details. I mentioned a dog with worms. He was super impressed.

I went through the instructions with him.

So the moment of truth arrived, and as luck would have it, we were at home. We could do it right now, today!

"Mama. You're not allowed to poop directly into the container."

"You're right." (Although I'd kind of like to see you try.)

"We're going to use wax paper."

"Absolutely."

What I hadn't counted on was the interest this would generate. India was not about to be left out. So there I was, following instructions, scooping various particles of poop with tiny little spoons, with an audience. I was kind of surprised Betty didn't join us.

Jordan, still enthroned, said authoritatively, "You're not filling it past the red line, are you?"

"No, honey."

"Only to the red line."

"Only to the red line."

Then India, "Mama? Can I try?"

"No, sweetheard. It's better if Mama does it."

"Why is that bottle red?"

Instructions from one side, questions from another. When all I wanted to do was scoop the feces into the little containers as quickly as possible, wash my hands, and get out of the stinky bathroom.

Seemingly impervious, they wanted to converse. What are the people going to do with the poo-poo? How was I going to take it to the doctor? Was I going to put it in my pocket? And why didn't India get to poop in little bottles? No fair that only Jordan got to!

And once again I found myself saying, "It's true. Nothing is fair. Maybe one day we can scoop your poop into little bottles as well."

Are you kidding me with this shit?

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand – which I've been washing a lot lately. Along with the other one. I wash them both. I promise.

After posting I realized that I actually ought to preface this tale with the following: It's really gross. You might not want to read it.

-----

If you have a child, and if that child has ever been out in the world with other human children, or if you don't have a child but have ever seen one in its natural habitat, you know that children are filthmongers.

They feed each other rat-walked-on wood chips in the park. They take their stuffed animals swimming in the toilet when you're not looking. They taste everything you don't want them to, like railings, car keys, signposts.

And then they call broccoli yucky. The hell?

I know for a fact that if they find chewed gum on the sidewalk they will pick it up and chew it, because I myself did this. Actually, my friend Natasha found it, started chewing it, and then gave me half. We both remarked on how sandy it was. Probably because we were living in Egypt at the time. There was sand everywhere.

Kids are revoltingly disgusting. (Is that redundant? I don't care.)

Listen. If they have the opportunity to stick their hands in their own poop, they will, and then be all, "Hey! Look what I found!"

They basically careen around in the world like wee human lint sticks except instead of lint they attract germs.

And then they come home and rub those germs all over you and stick them in your mouth in the guise of doing something cute and charming like saying, "Hi!" and pointing with their index finger and then you kiss their adorable little finger and BAM! Germs! Transferred!

And then they go sit in the corner and cackle maniacally.

I'm kidding about that last part. Because what they actually do is get down on the floor and find a hard, shriveled noodle from three days ago and promptly shove it in their mouth.

And what this all leads up to is this: India had about a week of diarrhea. Which I mistakenly attributed to milk.

Because we had the throwing up with the milk, so I put her back on formula while figuring out what to do. And then her tummy got better, and then we started slowly introducing milk - not a lot, but enough to see.

And then she started having diarrhea.

Since she's a baby, and since she will, given the opportunity, handle in her own feces, I know it won't currently embarrass her if I share details. (SCATOLOGY ALERT! Maybe a little too late, now that I think about it.)

Also, I'm sharing her details so I don't have to share mine.

Sometimes it was normal diarrhea, whatever that may be. And sometimes it was the kind of diarrhea that seems like pee, except that you know that it is not because it's brown and smells like mushroom soup would if you covered it and then left it in a warm place for like two weeks.

So there was that. We changed a lot lot lot of diapers. She was up a lot at night. We were up a lot at night. She got a hideous diaper rash. We staggered around like zombies.

And then it was over. But not really.

Because then I got it. And I realized that it sucked more than I knew. I've had approximately six pieces of toast and some noodles since Monday. Oh, and a little cereal.

I'm still afraid to eat, right now, as I type.

But poor little India. I just had no idea how terrible she felt.

Because Monday night, my whole body hurt. My skin hurt. My head hurt. My stomach was upset. I was exhausted. I had chills. I had fever dreams. I thought I was getting the flu.

Tuesday my mom took care of India, while I alternated between bed and bathroom. If I didn't eat or drink, then it was less of an issue. But you know, I'd get hungry or thirsty, as you do, and then...

Wednesday was even more about both places.

Nick called to see how I was feeling and I said, "Pretty crappy!" Which made me laugh which made me almost shit the bed.

HAHAHA....hahahaha...haha...h...a?

I told Nick he's lucky I have cat-like reflexes and excellent sphincter control.

Yesterday, I forced myself to go to the office, because I felt marginally better, and I had a shit-ton (hahahaha...ha...ha) to do.

I wore a maxi-pad so that in the event of a crisis, I'd be able to make it to the bathroom.

Because I'm a smarty-pants. HAHaha...

Nobody likes getting their penis stuck in their waistband.

I Talk Like a Mom Volume One:

"Oh, honey, I know that was uncomfortable. Nobody likes getting their penis stuck in their waistband."

"Please take your finger out of your bottom. We don't put our fingers in our bottoms."

"We don't need to save the poop until Daddy comes home. Let's just take a picture. He'll be very impressed."

"Wow! That IS the biggest booger ever!"

"Please don't put your tongue down the drain."

"We don't eat wood chips. Why? Because rats walk on them at night."

"The dead crab is gone. You will not get dead crabbed. I promise."

What kinds of things do you find yourself saying?

Plenty of time to develop the moves like Jagger before oh, prom, for example

Last night, I brought Jordan’s little friend Sasha home with me. She’s younger than Jordan, and still in day care, and her mom had asked if I could pick her up and have her hang out with us for a couple hours.

They live down the street, and Sasha and Jordan are good pals. She’s up for pretty much anything he proposes, so they have been known to crawl down the sidewalk together roaring like lions. For example.

Jordan was already home with Betty. He was sitting at the table playing with Play Doh, and although he likes her and they play well together, he did NOT want to share.

So I suggested they go in the back room, which is where his trains and cars are.

He jumped up and said, “OK!” He took her hand, pulled her towards the back, and asked, “Sasha, do you want to pee pee? Let’s go to the bathroom!”

Pee pee? I then realized my mistake. We never call it the back room. We call it the background. And back room does sound very much like bathroom, no?

But by that point they’d reached the bathroom door. He was enthusiastically trying to pull her in.  She’s not potty trained, and was not psyched. “No no no no no!”

“Jordan, don’t pull her. Let go. She doesn’t want to pee. She wants to go play in the background.”

He was about to let go of her hand. When it dawned on him that he had something awesome to offer. A trump card.

He beamed at her. “Do you want to see my poop?”

He was clearly about to pull her hand again. She resisted, looking as stricken as a two-and-a-half-year old can. She wasn’t falling for this bait and switch!

I, of course, rushed in.

There it was. A little tiny turd in the red potty. He stood over it like a trophy. Nanna let him save it to show Daddy and me. And anyone else important, it seems.

I high-fived him. Told him how proud I was, how impressed. And then suggested we take a picture for Daddy, and then flush it down the toilet.

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

Big things have been a-happening in our little world!
First, India started taking a bottle. We went away for Nick’s work retreat, and all the adults were going out for dinner, leaving the gaggle kids with babysitters. I was worried about leaving her, just knowing she’d have a fit and not take a bottle and it would be traumatic and tragic for all involved.

And lo, the seas parted, and she took a bottle like it was no big thing and was sound asleep when I got back to the hotel. And then she drank a couple more over the weekend, all casual-like.

Personally, I think she’s seen us eating and drinking and has begun viewing these things with increasing interest, and decided, “What the hell? Could be fun.”

Tra la!

Also! Equally big news! Jordan went to day care in UNDERWEAR today. He’s been using the potty for the last couple days.

He’s known for quite a while when he needs to pee and poop, but he’s been afraid of the potty and the toilet. But I got him these delightful Cars undies, and he loves them so. I gave them to him on his birthday, and honest to God, he attended his party in a T-shirt and underwear. There was no way to get him to put on pants.

“Is that Lightening McQueen? Oh, yeth!”

That lasted a couple hours and then he wanted the safety of a diaper and then hell no he was not putting them on the next morning for day care.

Around the house, however? Delighted, as long as there was no pressure.  Nick would suggest he put on his Cars underwear and they could sit on the couch together and watch Cars. That kind of thing, he was totally up for.

So the underwear.
Oh, and admittedly more importantly, we upped the ante. Nick went and offered him a backhoe if he would poop in the potty.
Seriously. One poop, and you get a whole truck. This kind of offer does not come around often.

Thus, and after rejecting M&Ms and stickers left and right, it suddenly seemed worth it.

So he screwed his courage to the sticking-place, held Nick’s hands, stared deeply into Nick’s eyes, as his father told him that he believed in him, and he knew he could do it…and jubilation! He did it!

The fanfare! The excitement! Betty and I were summoned to view the contents of the potty and exclaim upon it. The pride! Oh, the pride!

If you don't think they didn't have to wipe his butt and head immediately to Toys R Us, you do not know my boys.

Pants-Off Dance-Off

These past two months have been huge for Jordan. Huge.

First, we got rid of the Cold Pants. Wait, this calls for caps: WE GOT RID OF THE COLD PANTS!!!

Every once in a while both pairs would be too dirty to wear, and we could cajole our boy into shorts. So Nick suggested we just say the cold pants were dirty every day.

Fortunately Jordan bought it, rather than being all, "Then do some fucking laundry, why don't you?"

He still asks for them when he's really tired and going down for a nap. But otherwise, we are in shorts! Which is of course fantastic. Because I kid you not, this was him in July. If you enlarge the photo you will see the beleaguered state of the Cold Pants.

Also, he wanted the jacket because, although I pointed out that it was VERY HOT, he said, "But when it's done being hot, it's going to be cold."

He had a point. Plus, he's happy to remove a jacket in the heat. Just not the Cold Pants.

But!

Last week we went to a friend's house for a long weekend. This friend has a yard.

And here's what we learned: Jordan totally knows when he needs to pee. And poop. He just doesn't like the idea of the toilet or the potty.

By "doesn't like" I in fact mean gets all kinds of worked up, ranging from whining to actual hysteria. Like some giant hand is going to reach up out of the toilet and grab his crotch and pull him down into the pipes. Or something along those lines.

I haven't asked if that's his fear, because why suggest, right?

But! Butt!

Much like my brother and me and our Bangladesh childhood antics, this kid loves to pee outside! And so we did a lot of nakey nakey time.

He loves nakeytime! He loves to pee on plants! He can leap up and say, "I'll be right back!" and run out the screen door and pee! And then come back and go about his day.

So I thought, why not see if he'll poop outside as well? He was game for it so out to the yard we traipsed.

I did manage to get him to squeeze out two little turds. We were so proud. (Yes, I've horrified a couple of my friends with this admission. Feel free to be horrified.)

Now that we're back, it's all pull-ups and diapers, all the time. No fucking way is he going to let loose on the potty or toilet.

Nick suggested we put a big shrub on our back deck so we can continue the outside potty training, but really. No. Just no.

Because then what? We get him a special wagon to haul his pee-shrub around with him?

But I still see this as progress.

Watch out, you might get what you're after; Cool babies, strange but not a stranger

I'm not kidding when I say that compared to a C-section, vaginal birth is like a dance party.

And please forgive me if birth stories are not your cup of tea. I know I was never interested in them until I had a kid. And now I'm all, "So your mucal plug was the size of a golf ball??"

Honest to God, a couple people told me that. I never saw mine. No clue.

Also, this is very long. Because I want to record it all for myself, for India. You won't  hurt my feelings if you decide to wait and read another day, or just skip to the end where, you know (spoiler alert!), the baby comes out.

So.

I trudged home from work Wednesday the 18th, exhausted, crabby, and having spent the day feeling like I was being stabbed in the vagina from the inside. I took Tylenol before I went to sleep because I was all, fuck the stabbity stabbing. I need some sleep.

Water Breaks and Contractions Hurt Like Holy Hell
And then at 2 am I felt this little twinge. And then I started to leak. But not gush, like in the movies. I had time to wake Nick up and be all, "I think my water broke. It's like I'm peeing but I'm not peeing."

Naturally, I dragged him into the bathroom so I could demonstrate the not-peeing on the toilet. It just kept going and going.

I called my doula, who confirmed that it did indeed sound like my water bag had broken, and told me to call the midwife and then to get some sleep. I called the midwife, who said it sounded like there was meconium in the fluid, but not to worry, and to come to the hospital at 6 am. And sleep in the meantime.

Which was when the contractions started. They were much like my midwife had demonstrated. Except like 50 times more painful.

My doula had said that they'd start, and they'd be far apart, and not to pay attention to the clock. Approach each contraction as an opportunity to move the baby down. And then rest in between.

Basically, I was prepared to rest, watch a movie, read, what-have-you in between contractions.

Except that these motherfuckers started 3-5 minutes apart (yes, I'm a clock watcher) and they hurt so much that I was on my hands and knees on the bed, squatting on the side of the bed, leaning over and clutching the bed...

I was all, "Breathe, breathe, this is an opportunity..."

I finally texted my doula all, "These hurt like holy hell and there's no way I can do this for 24 hours." At which point she called and while we were chatting she was all, "Hmm. Sounds like it's going a bit faster than anticipated."

Honestly, I would recommend her to anyone. She's very even and calm and soothing, and she handles both Nick and me and our varied styles extremely well.

And It Doesn't Hurt Less Just Because You're at the Hospital, Until...
We got to the hospital a little after 6 am. The midwife (a very sweet, gentle one - not the hardcore one who I respect but fear) checked my cervix around 7 and I was not at all dilated. She pushed, and she said most people's will open if that happens. Me? Zero.

They had both India and me hooked up to monitors, and she was doing fine and I was contracting like all hell and yet no dilation.

This continued for another couple hours. The nurse was wonderful, doula, and Nick were all there the whole time and were wonderful. They would rub my back, breathe with me, remind me to relax my shoulders, breathe into it, etc.

And then, about 9, the anesthesiologist came in, I think as a routine visit in case I wound up needing anesthesia. She asked me what meds I was taking, allergies, etc. And then she said, "If you want an epidural, you just need to ask. There's no shame in it."

At which point I burst into tears and said, "YES PLEASE I WANT ONE RIGHT NOW I CANNOT DO THIS IT HURTS IT HURTS PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE CAN I HAVE ONE RIGHT NOW."

Nick reminded me that I'd worked so hard for all these months and was I sure? And since he wasn't within kicking range all I could say was "Please shut up, Nick."

The doula had suggested that I ask for the attending to perform the procedure, so I did. The resident left to get him, and the nurse said, "Actually, she is very good."

I looked at Nick and said, "GO GET HER BACK!" and, good man that he is, he sprinted.

Accio anesthesiologist!

Epidurals Are Magic And Then I Slept

As I dozed off (sleep! after days and days! finally!) Nick and the midwife had a little meeting. She was going to consult with the head of OB. Nick called family to tell them it looked like I'd be having another C-section.

My body kept contracting. India kept doing well. And my cervix, it turns out, decided to dilate. They would occasionally reposition me to help the baby work her way downward.

Somewhere around noon, as they were shifting me, they saw the bloody show. 

And when the midwife came back in to check, she said, "I can't really feel..." I was sure she was going to say "any dilation" but instead she said, "much cervix. You're almost fully dilated."

Which made me burst into tears. My body works like it's supposed to after all. And I've spent the last three years thinking I was totally defective. Fuck you very much, OB.

So they said to hang out until I felt a tremendous urge to poop. Then I'd start pushing. This took another hour or so. I was worried I wouldn't recognize it.

Hahahaha.

And Then With Much Encouragement, Behold, I Squoze a Baby Out of My Vagina
Suddenly I was all, "Oh! I feel it!" This was right about 3 pm.

And then they all sprung into action. I was all worried I would poop. They told me I probably wouldn't but not to worry. If I did, I wouldn't know.

Oh, I did. And I knew.

Somehow, I had always envisioned women depositing a large turd on the table. I don't know why. But then my friend Jane said her husband said it was like a Play-Doh factory, if you remember extruding your Play Doh.

Nick started making fun of me, at which point they directed him up by my head. But then he settled down, and they assigned him leg holding duty. First they had me on my side. They'd have me take a breath and let it out, then take a breath and push for 10. The nurse was counting.

And then they asked if I'd like to try being on my back. Neither of these would have seemed like optimal pushing positions prior to this little exercise. But you have these contractions and then you just, well, push.

So there we all were: the midwife, the doula, the husband, the nurse, and me. All up close and personal. They were doing warm compresses, they were supporting my perineum, they were discreetly wiping away the poop. That just kept coming and coming and coming.

I know it did. Nick unnecessarily confirmed this fact.

You know how when people tell you you're doing a good job, it just makes you want to try harder? This is what was going on. They were complimenting my pushing abilities. Clearly Lisa, you are very fit and have great abs! Such fantastic pushing!

(Fortunately nobody was like, clearly you have a lot of huge poops!)

And then after a while her head was almost out, and my vagina cheerleading squad got all excited, and they were all, a few more pushes! and then it was out...and the midwife asked Nick if he'd like to catch the baby...

Personally, I was about to suggest that they leave it to a professional, but he was really excited about it.

So Nick caught the baby. And they put her on my belly, all gunky and red and what the hell just happened? She was there. Right there. My baby!

They left the cord connected until it turned white, so she could get all the blood, oxygen, whatever else from it. And then they offered for Nick to cut it, which he was also all thrilled about. They put her up to nurse.

I'm telling you, although my doula contends that I could have, and I just made a choice - the right choice for me - I don't believe I could've done it without the epidural. I have never, seriously never, been in pain like that.

But I will also say that as soon as it was over, I genuinely felt the urge to be all yee-haw yippeee naked backflips down the hallway! when it was over. I mean, if I had been able to move my legs.

Honestly and truly one of the best days of my entire life.

My intentions are good and earnest and true, but under my hood is internal combustion power

Nick sent this picture to me in an email the other day with the subject "We need to get this for Jordan."

Poo continues to dominate our household conversation.

"Jordan, would you like milk or juice?"

"How about..." little grin "...poopy water!"

And then of course you have to make a terrible face and exclaim how yucky that idea is and how we would never drink poopy water! And he's all kinds of delighted with himself.

Jordan still insists on coming to the bathroom with you, and he always says, with hope in his voice, "What are you making?"

If you tell him you have to pee, he'll say, "Would you like to poop?"

As if you're ordering dinner and he's offering you an appetizer. Like, you'll suddenly be all, you know, now that you mention it, I would like to poop!

He's inordinately pleased when you do. And he'll commend you on it. He'll report on your accomplishment. "Daddy had an EMORmous poop! You did a good job, Daddy!"

The most inconvenient part of this fascination, in my opinion, is the demand to show him the poop in his diaper. "I want to see!" Because let me tell you, it's both horrendously disgusting and not particularly easy to hold a diaper full of vileness up, tipped just enough so the reclining boy can get an eyeful.

And in this endeavor, Betty accidentally dropped Jordan's poop on him the other day. Plop. Right on his shirt.

I bought him this incredibly cute London bus shirt for Christmas. He was wearing it the day of The Incident.

For days and days afterwards, whenever he'd see the shirt he'd say, rather excitedly, "Nana dropped poop on my bus!"

Let my love open the door. It's all I'm living for.

So, when you walk in the front door after work and the first thing your mother says is, "I have to talk to you about something," it makes you a little nervous.

Here's what happened.

You know how Jordan has become particularly interested in poop? Which just means that now he fits in with the rest of the family? Except Betty, who used to regularly say when I was growing up, "Can we please have no anal talk at the dinner table tonight?"

Poor woman.

So, anyway, he has.

We've been very open about all of it, in an encouragement of heading towards potty training. We let him flush the toilet, which he loves.

Now, he spends two days a week at home with my mom, plus a lot of time in the evenings and on weekends. They're tight. And typically, at least in our house, if it's just you and Jordan, you leave the bathroom door open when you go in.

It's just safer. Because Lord only knows what he'll get into left to his own devices.

So that particular day, Jordan ambled on into the bathroom and said, "What are you making, Nana?"

This is his new thing. What are you making?

As it turned out, she was engaged in an activity of supreme interest to our little friend. And so he marched over, pushed her forward on the toilet, exclaiming, "Move! I want to see!"

He wants to see the poop come out. I am not kidding you.

So Betty said, "You know I would do anything for Jordan. But this is just beyond what I can handle."

It's beyond what any of us really want to handle. So now, here's what you have to do.

You wait until Jordan walks out of the room. And then, making sure he's not looking in your direction, you scurry towards the bathroom, closing the door behind you. He can't yet turn the handle.

Sometimes it all goes fine. But sometimes he walks back in, notices your absence, and he suspiciously inquires about it. If responses are vague, he makes a beeline for the bathroom door.

If he finds it closed, he bangs. He wails, "What are you making?" Bang! Bang! "I neeeeed to come in! OPEN! I NEEED TO COME IN!"

His distress is palpable. He's pretty singular of purpose and hard to distract from this endeavor.

It doesn't help that the spectators in the house are supremely amused by the whole thing. Who wants to be laughed at when you have a serious objective?

So far, it's only at home, and guests are exempt. Let's hope he grows out of it before it gets all awkward and we have to warn his prom date or something.

Starting 2012 off with a...plop?

Jordan has started talking about poop. A lot.

(Happy New Year!)

He's also gotten back to wanting to read "Where's My Potty?" (to Nick's chagrin) on the regular.

This, to my mind, proves two things: One, he is inching towards potty training. And two, the Lisa Family Force is strong with this one.

He still likes to list where we don't poop. "We don't poop on the couch! We don't poop in Nana's shoe!"

No, we certainly don't, my friend.

So the other day, Australian Builder's dog Tiga pooped on the rug. She's getting old, and she wasn't feeling well. She was terrified. It was clearly an accident.

Jordan was the one who discovered it. He said, "Somebody pooped on the rug!"

Now, you or I would've seen it and realized immediately that Tiga had done it. But in Jordan's world, there was a houseful of possibilities. Was it Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick? Daddy in the kitchen with the roll of toilet paper?

Nick explained that it was Tiga who pooped on the rug, and it was an accident. We all have accidents sometimes.

Mine tend towards the spilling of beverages and walking into walls, but I suppose you never know.

In further poop news, we now announce when we're going to the bathroom to poop. In the toilet. "I'm just going to the bathroom to have a poop in the toilet! I like to poop in the toilet!"

Jordan has gotten fascinated with this.

The other day Nick was looking for a little privacy. I know he wanted to head in there with the Sunday paper and enjoy some manly alone time. Even though I keep telling him it causes varicose veins and the toilet is no place to sit for an extended period of time.

It's true. Seriously. Plus, I just think the fact that men do this by choice is fucking weird.

Anyway, Jordan shot that all to hell by making a beeline for the bathroom as soon as he realized what Nick was up to.

They emerged in much less time than it might take to read the front page of the Times.

"Do you know how hard it is to take a poop with someone staring at you?"

"As a matter of fact..."

"And then, as soon as I did, he handed me one square of toilet paper and said, 'Get up, Daddy! I want to see!'"

That's my boy.

Why, yes, I am tired and crabby and this time change totally cracks me out. Why?

You might think, from reading LG, that I am completely oblivious to what's going on in the world.

Like, really, if I knew about the tragedy still unfolding in Japan, or the multiple Middle East crises, that I'd write about those rather than the biggest dog poo ever.

But you focus on what you're good at, you know?

So on Sunday morning a friend of mine was out walking their dog and came across the biggest dog poo she had ever seen. This prompted her to send me a message. With the following first paragraph: **Warning: the attachment is a picture of the largest dog poo I've ever seen. Open at own risk**

So I say this to you: open at your own risk. Even if you don't - and I cannot blame you - you know the content.

As she has a dog, she's used to picking up dog poo. But said she thinks she draws the line at anything bigger than her hand. Which, if you look at this, it most certainly is.

And she said, "What if a dog this size gets the runs?"

This is something I cannot even contemplate.

However. This is not the reason we didn't get a dog this weekend. The main reason is that the Mastiff was not our dog, and the two pit bulls we saw at WARL that were sweet as pie and Nick wanted but I did not, even if they don't deserve their bad reputation, were not our dogs.

Also, Jordan was a bit of anasshole this weekend, belligerent and full of NONONONONOs! and even though I understand that he is teething and uncomfortable and frustrated that we are in charge and he can't do everything he wants to do, it made me all what the fuck are we doing trying to take on more responsibility of any variety?

Maybe it is less about the poo and more about the sleep. And the realization that you have almost zero free time to do things you actually want to do.

And maybe, just maybe, at this point in time one might be better off not piling anything more on?

In case you didn't know, it's all about the poop

Did I tell you we've been looking to adopt a rescue dog?

I don't think I've mentioned it.

Yes. So last Saturday we hauled our butts down past Richmond to meet a Mastiff/Bulldog mix. The one pictured here. He's 70 lbs at approximately 9 months old. We adored him.

Sadly, it doesn't look like he's going to be our dog, because there are a couple people who put in applications ahead of us and seem like good fits. I've asked them to consider us if somehow those people don't work out.

We need a dog who wants to be walked around the block and then wants to lay around and be petted and prodded and loved on by an 18-month old.

Mastiffs fit the bill perfectly. Now, Mastiffs are Nick-sized dogs - which is why he wants one. They're more like small ponies. But sweet, gentle, and lazy. So we figure a Mastiff mixed with a smaller dog could be perfect.

I told my beautiful, elegant friend Michele about Mastiff Quest 2011, and she got the kind of look on her face that you get when you smell something terrible. She waved her arms in front of her, all nonononono!

She said, essentially, "What is wrong with you? Why are you adding more poop to your life?"

"More poop?"

If you didn't know her, you wouldn't think Michele would talk about poop. She's too pretty and too well put together. But she can talk poop with the best of us, and has a mouth like a sailor.

So. She went on:

"Why would you do this? Do you know how big his poops are going to be? You already have a baby whose poop you clean. You maybe even occasionally wipe your husband's poop off the toilet seat. And now! Now you want to add an enormous dog with enormous poop! Poop that will be your responsibility!"

She gesticulated wildly. She got a little shrill.

"I didn't think about it that way."

(When you add it all up, it is a LOT of poop...)

"Lisa. Think about the poop! It's all about the poop."

We're scheduled to meet another enormous pooper this coming Saturday.

It's all fun and cow farting until somebody winds up in jail

Perhaps you read the post on DCist last week about PETA and the farting cows?

PETA had announced they were going to blast cow fart noises outside of a DC steak house. A friend sent me the link, suggesting it was right up my alley.

Naturally, I replied that I thought it would be more effective if they had fart spray to go along with it. Don't you think?

To which she replied that maybe I could donate some of Jordan's used diapers, or some of the poo from our alley.

Which seems like the kind of thing that is never going to end well.

I'd call Nick and be all, "Hi. I'm in jail...Oh. Well, it all started because I donated some poo..."

I didn't. In case you're wondering.

Now, there are people that I wouldn't mind throwing poo at, but random meat-eaters are not among them. I'm not in favor of poor treatment of animals, but I'm also not a PETAer. They're a little extreme.

I realize this might sound odd coming from someone with a list of people I'd like to throw poo at. But it's a pretty short list.

More of a category list. I mean, there are some named people on there. But then there are rubrics - like "asshole drivers who cut you off" and things like that. Or maybe just "asshole drivers," really.

It would be so great to have a bag of poo and a catapult attached to the side of your car for those people. I know I'd find it really satisfying.

Although now that I'm thinking about it, that'd probably be another call from jail, huh?

City living can charm your pants off

You know, it occurred to me that I've never told you about the poo in the alley.

Human poo, I mean.

It seems like the kind of thing I would tell you immediately, doesn't it?

So we have this narrow alley between the back of our house and the next one. It's where the garbage cans line up, and provides access to the back of each house.

The guy who is what I suppose you might call the caretaker of the apartments next door is this creepy little character who drags every imaginable piece of broken furniture and stuff possible back to his place. And it often winds up in the alley.

Nick's theory is that people know his propensity to collect trash, and so when they have something to get rid of, something that the garbage people won't take, they put it in our alley.

Which is how the seatless chair ended up back there.

Perhaps you know where this is going.

Now, I don't know if any of you would ever see a seatless chair sitting out in the open and think, "Toilet!"

However. It clearly occurred to someone, because Nick took the garbage out one morning and there it was.

We now have tenants in the basement. They moved in just before the poo incident.

I'm not in any way suggesting these events are related. Just introducing these people to the story.

So the very next day the boyfriend in the basement emailed Nick and asked about the protocol for garbage and recycling.

(And does "boyfriend in the basement" make you hum Girlfriend in a Coma? Or is it just me?)

Nick replied with an explanation of the green and blue bins and the garbage days and then added something along the lines of, "You may have seen me hosing out the alley this morning. Let me explain..."

He went on to tell him about the poo, except he used the word defecate. And how this happens every so often. And how, if he'd like to know more, he should come up for a drink that evening.

Nick copied me on this email.

And I was all, "Come up for a drink so I can tell you more about the defecation situation? What kind of social offer is that? He's going to forward the email to his girlfriend, who is going to say, 'Don't go upstairs.'"

And then I also thought, "Fuck. They've lived here like 10 days. And now they're going to think that we attract defecators! And that we like to talk about it!"

And then I realize that really, on that last point, they would be right.

Really should be titled crankypantsing all around

We are going on day three of serious crankyfacedness.

The boy, not me. Actually, me, too.

But only because my boy, who is usually sunshine and unicorn kisses all wrapped up in rainbows has temporarily (pray God) turned into a little pink ball of whine and gripe and scream. And poo.

Big J is feeling crummy - teething? - and he has had an upset tummy.

Not every moment. He can be his lovely charming self for a while, and then turn into a screeching dollop of misery the next.

We spent the weekend in kind of a poofest, with screaming SCREAMING at every diaper change. Of which there were a lot. And also at random moments.

And when you put him down.

And I'd nurse him and he'd fart these farts of death, which were only more evil because they were taking place like a foot from my nose. And I couldn't walk away.

Plus you'd have to check to see if it was fart? Or poo?

Nick and I both got poofingers checking diapers on separate occasions.

In addition to the fartpoo business, he's been needy needy needy. And screamy.

As you know, he's started making all kinds of noises lately. Babababababa! Dadadadada! So fun!

And also this new noise I can't quite describe. But I will try.

It's kind of like if you took an immense cheese grater and scraped it along rusty metal pipes rotating very slowly.

Next to which several cats were mating and making that screechy sound (which is apparently because cat penises are barbed???).

And someone was slaughtering sheep in the background.

While someone else was turning the key in the ignition of an engine that refused to start.

That's an approximate description.

Basically, it's very terrible.

And I feel bad for him, I do, and I try to comfort him, with patting and rocking and lullabies and, "Oh, honey, shush shush shush."

But the truth is that after a while, in my mind and sometimes even out loud I'm all "Jesus, Jordan! Goddammit! Stoooooooooop!"

Which makes me feel like a bad mama.

In case you want a little more attention in public

I don't know what it is about bad cell phone reception that causes me to repeat myself louder and louder.

Why do I do this? I know that when I'm the one with bad reception, it doesn't matter how loudly the person on the other end is speaking. It's the signal.

But I forget this when the person on the other end is all, "Hold on. I can't hear you."

And instead of being all, "Hello? How about now?" I'll keep on with the conversation, but continue to increase the volume. And I also get increasingly annoyed.

Kind of like when you're in a foreign country and they don't understand your English.

I kid. Really.

So.

And have I mentioned that I gesticulate while speaking on the phone, just as if I were having an in-person conversation? This gesticulation gets ratcheted up the less I'm heard as well. You know. To really make a spectacle of myself make myself understood.

Yes.

So while I was gone Nick had the unfortunate experience of dealing with a two-person poo. All by himself.

And Big J has gotten very squirmy and very dexterous. So while Nick was grabbing for wipes, Jordan reached down into his poo. And then smeared it everywhere.

It was, as I understand it, like the aftermath of a giant poo massacre. Necessitating a bath and change of clothes for all involved.

Apparently the same thing, only less extreme and more contained, happened when Nick changed him first thing this morning.

Nick and I didn't have any chat time before he left for work, so when we spoke at lunchtime he told me about it on the phone.

I was in CVS, looking for baby-friendly sunscreen. And he kept not being able to hear me.

So at one point I asked, "Had you taken the diaper away? Did he scoop the poo out of the diaper?"

Like this is something I actually needed to know.

"What? I can't hear you?"

So I repeated - at louder volume - the question.

"Hello? I can't hear you. Hello?"

I started to repeat myself uh-gain, when he interrupted with another, "Hello?"

And instead of just leaving it, I bellowed.

"THE POO!"

"What?"

"THE POO! THE POO! HOW DID HE GET HIS HANDS IN THE POO? THE POO.."

"...You don't need to yell. What about the poo?"

"Never mind. Just. Nothing."

I myself dabbled in pacifism once. Not in 'Nam of course.

From: Lisa
To: Nick
Sent: Wed, February 3, 2010 10:30:04 AM
Subject: small victories

I just had a huge poo and then as I was washing my hands this woman I loathe walked into the stall I had just used.


From: Nick
To: Lisa
Sent: Wed, February 3, 2010 10:45:21 AM
Subject: Re: small victories

Jordan had the same wicked smile you get this morning when I was wiping poo off of his back, my hands, my shirt...It runs in the family.


From: Lisa
To: Nick
Sent: Wed, February 3, 2010 11:37:13 AM
Subject: Re: small victories

Boy, I wish I could poo on her.

You'd much rather be married to Nick

So last Friday, Nick and I had the following email exchange:

From: Lemon Gloria
To: Nick
Sent: Fri, November 13, 2009 11:53:57 AM
Subject: tremendous poo

Mine, not his. It rivals yours. I took pictures.

------------------

From: Nick
To: Lemon Gloria
Sent: Fri, November 13, 2009 11:55:09 AM
Subject: Re: tremendous poo

Call me to discuss.

------------------

So I did. And then the doorbell rang.

A dozen roses, and a happy anniversary card.

I've told you before - there's something very wrong with me.