Poop is, indeed, NOT FUNNY.

Mother's Day is coming up, and I always find myself in mourning around this time. I mourn the loss of my old self... You know, the skinny, energetic, smooth-skinned, selfish, OLD ME. The Pre-Kids Me.

Of course, this is ridiculous, because I would trade in everything (a thousand times over) for my children. I don't think you'd find a Mom on this earth who wouldn't do it all over again.

But still.

There are times when I find myself comparing characteristics of the Old Me, and the New Mommy Me.

-For example, the Old Me, the more immature model, found anything poop-related HI-LAR-ious.

Yeah, don't ask why. It's not something that can be explained, except for that I was childish??  But seriously, any mention of poop, and I would have a giggle fit that lasted hours, and that would return every time I would wander back to it in my mind, days and even weeks later.

When I was like 19, my roommate Sarah and I often giggled on the nasty subject. We always said we were gonna rent the movie "Monsturd." But I think it was rated R. What could possibly warrant an R rating in such an old campy movie, is still beyond me. But I did download the song on a computer and listen to it, and sing it, and crack myself up.

Yeah, I don't know how I ended up getting married, either.

We even posted a sign in/near the bathroom in our apartment, that said (in big brown squashy-looking letters created by Yours Truly)  "POOP is not funny. POOP is private."

Sarah, I found a picture of this the other day, and I laughed. A lot. If we see each other in Nauvoo, I may bring it for you. We'll have to meet in a dark alley though, far away from the temple grounds so we're not being un-holy. (do dark alleys exist in Nauvoo? Not sure.)

Except that it was funny.

You see, when something is well under control and always does what it's supposed to do, always keeps itself contained, there is room for humor. And of course, at 19 years old I more than had my bathroom skills down pat.

The day I had my first child, Poop was no longer funny.

In fact, I quickly developed a Zero Tolerance Policy. ZERO. TOLERANCE.

I believe this policy fell into place when Ellie, at just a few days old, soiled our brand-new mattress. The stain can still be seen.

The policy solidified one day when Ellie was about 13 months or so. She had a habit of hiding anything she wasn't supposed to be holding behind her back when we'd catch her with it.
I walked into her room one afternoon, and she quickly whipped her hands behind her back, displaying a set of huge guilty brown eyes.

I held my hand out. "Give whatever it is to Mommy, please."

Oh, how I despise myself for uttering those words. I think we can all guess what she placed into my open hands.

Then the policy was reinforced on the day that we discovered a mysterious brown line smeared down Ellie's wall... Ricardo swore it was chocolate, but by that point, I knew better. You can read more about that story, Here.

Also the time when Ellie pooped and walked out of the bathroom with a poopy toilet paper tail. 

I was again reminded of the Zero Tolerance Policy when Ellie pretended she was a dog all over our bathroom rugs. Yeah, you know what dogs do outside. Let's just say I was really wishing they at least used litter boxes, like their feline counterparts.

And every time Ellie gets sick and misses the toilet because it comes too fast and catches her by surprise, I chant in my head, Zero Tolerance. Zero....


I think Ellie alone has enough horrifying poop stories to fill a very thick book.

But now Eva has joined the Anti-Zero Tolerance Policy Clan.

I was feeding her a nice warm bowl of oatmeal baby cereal last night. She had pounded down about 3/4 of the bowl, when I guess the pressure of the new food began to push the old food out. So yeah. In one end, and straight out the other. Nice, huh?

So, I chuckled at how red her face was getting while she pushed, and once she stopped, I assumed she was done. Who wouldn't??
So I carried her stinky baby bootie to my room, to change her diaper. She had pretty much filled it, and that was cool with me. I started wiping.

And she started pooping. Again. And so, I had to stand there for about 5 minutes holding the diaper so that the poop would go into it.

I was like a catcher on a baseball team; the diaper being my mitt, except that the little baseballs were less than favorable in my eyes. And in my nostrils.

It was degrading. It was a moment when I returned to mourning the Old Me.

Sure, I thought poop was funny, when I never had to touch it. When it wasn't someone else's, all over me, or my bathroom rugs. When it wasn't placed into my hands. When I didn't have to catch it like a baseball!

See, I've repented of my crass ways. Poop is indeed, not funny. And I wish it were private in my home.

But at least I will have plenty of blackmail tools, and ammo to scare off any loser boyfriends that the girls may bring home :)