Poop, there it is…
Oh. my. god. I’ve heard about it. I’ve read about. But somehow, in my heart of hearts, I didn’t want to believe it. The biggie. The mother of all poops. Explosion would be an appropriate term. Foul even more accurate. Dare I say, inhuman?
I’d been feeling bad for my little bugger (you know, the constipation thing, my quest for apple juice, etc.). After his not going for three days, I knew I’d be in for it. But nothing could’ve prepared me. I couldn’t have imagined the epic proportions a natural body function could assume. So now here I am, a college-educated woman (with a master’s degree no less), writing about poop. Traumatized, and writing about poop.
Be glad that some sadistic part of me didn’t first run for the camera to record the horror for you. So…no photos. And for once, I don’t even know what else to say. I could tell you about all the wipes I used, the mining of his leg creases, the necessary bath. But if you have a child, you already know, so I can spare the words. If you don’t have kids, well…I suppose you won’t truly believe the sheer nastiness of it all until some little, smiling, unassuming munchkin initiates you. And then, and only then, will you know.