“I want to do a poo SO BIG that it goes all the way to the ceiling!!” Daniel (3) told me randomly the other day while I was driving down the road.
“That’s a pretty big poo buddy,” I told him, attempting to stifle my laughter.
“Actually, I want to do a poo SO BIG it goes to SPACE! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, TEN POOPS IN SPACE!!!” He told me, clearly excited about the prospect of space poop.
“Wow, that’s a lot of poop,” I told him.
“Actually, zero poops in space.” Okay then.
Maybe we’ll just work on trying to get it in the potty for now…..
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Everyone knows that number one is code for pee and number two is synonymous with poop, but what, exactly, is number three you ask?
I think this video explains it best:
Hannah was just a baby when that commercial came out, so naturally, I found it hilarious and actually understood what they were talking about. I can imagine that a non-parent/caregiver/nanny would watch it and think what the heck. Poo explosions were a regular occurrence when the kids were babies, but I haven’t had to worry about it for at least a year. Until recently….
Last week:
“Mommy, I need to go to the toilet!” Daniel tells me urgently at a friend’s house. I pick him up and run to the bathroom. At home he wears undies, but when we’re out, I don’t really want to deal with poopy underwear, so he wears a pull up. I don’t really want to deal with poopy underwear any time, but it’s so much worse when we’re out. Not to mention the pooped on garments sit there fermenting in a bag until we get home if he poops in undies while we are out. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
I pull down his pants and underwear as fast as humanely possible and lift him up onto the toilet. He wants down less than a second after I put him up.
“Nope.” He tells me. False alarm. He knows there is a poo coming soon, but he’s not so good with the actual timing. I know there must be one coming soon too, he hasn’t pooped in 2-3 days, and he’s a daily sort of boy. The two tiny little wet fart type accidents he’s already had today make me think he’s holding it in and has a bit of overflow. Yes, that’s a thing. I know all about it because Hannah used to hold it in. She still does sometimes, but I can tell when she’s doing it and make her go sit on the toilet. I guess she figures if she’s already on the toilet she might as well just go, so it’s not really a problem anymore.
I think Daniel is doing it because he doesn’t want to poop his undies or pull up. But he doesn’t want to go on the toilet either.
We have about five more false alarms at my friends house before we have to leave to go to a different friend’s house, one who’s house I’ve never been to before.
He has another false alarm there before I notice he’s lingering in the bathroom all by himself. Just standing there, away from everyone. A quick check of the pull up reveals he’s already started his poop, which is fine, I’m just glad he’s finally pooping.
“I need to go to the toilet!” He tells me. But it’s not just a turtle head, there is already some poop in his pull up. If I try to get if off, then put him on my friend’s toilet, I’m likely to get poop all over the toilet seat. Not exactly what I want to do at someone else’s house.
“There’s already some in your pull up buddy, just finish your poop in your pull up.” I tell him. If we were at home, I’d get poop everywhere and put him on the potty or toilet anyway.
I leave him to it and he stands in the bathroom by himself for ages before finally coming out.
“I’ll be right back, I just have to go to the car to get a new pull up and some wipes.” I tell my friend as Daniel sits down on the new carpet next to Hannah.
“Ok buddy, let’s go change your bottom.” I tell him whilst picking him up.
That’s when I notice; the 2-3 days worth of poop isn’t contained in his pull up. Not even remotely. We’re definitely talking about number threes here. My eyes widen in horror as I realize there is a big brown spot of poop on my friend’s beige carpet. Her brand new beige carpet.
My mind races. Should I help clean up the carpet poop? Should I run Daniel into the bathroom and deal with carpet poop later? I can’t believe there is poop on the carpet. I should clean it up, but what about Daniel? Won’t he just sit down again and make more poop spots? My mind is made up in a second.
Holding Daniel by the armpits out in front of me as if he’s toxic, I run him to the bathroom, where there is a tiled floor, to change his clothes and clean him up. The poop is half way up his back and oozing out both sides of the nappy. I don’t even know where to begin.
“Do you have a hose outside?” I ask my friend.
She looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. It is the middle of winter after all. “Yes, but you don’t need to do it outside.”
“Can I give him a bath here?”
“Of course.” I think she is stifling laughter.
It’s impossible to peel his clothes off without spreading the poop, so now there is poop not only on his back, bottom, stomach, and legs, but also his shoulders. The poo clothes are put in a plastic bag, which will have to ferment until I get home. We somehow managed to get poop all over the bathroom floor as well. There is even some on the bottom of Daniel’s shoe which has made poop tread marks on the tiles. The once white bathtub is streaked with brown.
Daniel is standing there, naked in the tub, delighted that he gets to have a bath in a foreign bathtub. I don’t really want to get poop on someone else’s wash cloth, so I splash water on Daniel and wipe him down with my bare hand. Once all the poop is off him, I use the warm water and my hand to get it all down the drain of the bathtub before using the baby bath I find on the side of the bathtub to wash both Daniel and the bathtub.
Daniel plays in the bath while I clean the poop off the bathroom floor and finally he and the bathroom are clean. Number three has been dealt with.
Meanwhile, my friend, who is something like 39 weeks pregnant, is in her lounge room with Hannah and her daughter (who is under 2), cleaning up the soiled carpet.
“It’s a poo volcano!” I hear her say. She is using vinegar and baking soda to fix her new carpet while Hannah’s giggles fill the room. Luckily my friend has the kind of humour that finds poop hilarious.
Note to self: Always put Daniel on the toilet, even if at someone else’s house and pooping has already commenced.
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“Mom, there are lights on at the hospital,” Hannah tells me as we drive by. I’m not sure why that should be weird since it is the middle of the day and the sky is full of clouds, but she says it as if it’s something super strange.
“There are always lights on at the hospital Sweetie. There is always someone that needs to go to the hospital, no matter what time of day it is. The hospital is open all day and all night. Sometimes babies are even born in the middle of the night.
“Really?” She asks me, wanting to hear more.
“Yeah, remember before Daniel was born, I was in the hospital all night? I didn’t have him in the middle of the night, I had him in the morning, but some ladies have babies at night.”
“So which one of us did you do a poo with when we were coming out?” She asks me with interest.
I try unsuccessfully to contain my laughter that is slightly laced with mortification. “How did you know about that?”
The cheeky eavesdropper
“I heard you telling someone a long time ago.” Probably The Jess or Romana. I don’t generally go around telling people that.
“That was when Daniel was coming out,” I tell her between laughs.
“Why did you poo?”
“Well, you have to push really hard to get a baby out, and if you don’t do a poo before it’s time for the baby to come out, then with all that pushing, a poo comes out too.”
Note to self, don’t talk about stuff when Hannah is even remotely in earshot.
And FYI, it’s normal to poo during birth. Midwives take care of it as it happens and the mom is usually none the wiser. The only reason I know is because I felt some wiping while I was pushing. A giant baby head nestled against your perineum kind of trumps any feeling of poop coming out.
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The first time Hannah used my age to convey a number, it was kind of funny. Daniel was being cheeky (as usual), and Hannah was making jokes about it.
“There are two cheeky Daniel’s!!” She giggled, imagining what life would be like if Daniel were a twin.
“No, there are as many Daniel’s as Mommy’s age!!” She yelled, followed by raucous cheeky laughter. Clearly she thinks she is hilarious.
But then she did it again. I can’t remember what we were talking about, but it went something like this:
“There will be 5. No, 10…20. No, AS MANY AS MOMMY IS OLD!” Hannah told me while giggling.
My cheeky little girl
Now every time she needs to quantify a very large number, she confidently says “as many as mommy is old,” or “as many as mommy’s age.” She used to say things like 1,000 hundred for really big exaggerated numbers, like a normal 4 year old, but now she has her own large unit of measurement: my age. And it seems that in her mind, no number is larger.
I’m torn between finding it hilarious and feeling ancient.
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Before getting Rosie, I had all these nice images in my head about what life would be like with a dog.
1. Dream: After a long day, the puppy would lay on my lap enjoying a pat and a cuddle.
Reality: Like a racing dog chasing a rabbit, Rosie thunders toward the couch, jumping onto my lap as her pointy claws scratch my legs. Despite the scratches, I’m happy to finally have a moment of lap dog so I stroke her fur. She lets me for about two seconds before she realises that my hand would be a fantastic chew toy.
2. Dream: When we’re outside in the back yard, the kids play together with Rosie, bearing the biggest grins on their faces that I’ve ever seen.
Reality: Rosie excitedly jumps up on them, accidentally clawing them in the process and makes them cry. When the kids are playing with one of their outdoor toys, Rosie steals it and runs off. Daniel cries some more.
3. Dream: A dog will protect my vegetable patch from birds and other large pests.
Reality: She chases birds away only because she notices them whilst digging big holes in the garden, pulling leaves off of my beans, and pulling out and tearing apart anything that is not already established. I even got a special plant that is supposed to deter dogs and keep them away from the garden in hopes of keeping her out. She pulled it out and tore it up.
some of the holes in the garden. This part of the garden isn’t yet planted because it was finished too late for last seasons crops. Now if I plant anything, she tears it straight out.
4. Dream: Going for walks with the family would be an almost daily, fun activity, with our puppy loping along happily next to my heel.
Reality: The whole walk is spend trying to keep Rosie from tripping the kids by erratic walking/running/pulling. My arm is dead by the time we get back from my attempts to keep her on one side only and not pulling like a maniac.
5. Dream: When in a playful mood, the kids and I can have lots of fun playing fetch with the dog.
Reality: We throw the ball once and then she runs off with it. Unless we have treats, in which case she brings it back and puts it at my feet knowingly every single time.
6. Dream: We could all enjoy watching Rosie frolicking about with her numerous toys when she’s in a playful mood.
Reality: Immediately she stashes all of her toys outside and then steals whatever she can (undies, shoes, kids’ toys, cups, toilet paper rolls, etc.) to chew to pieces inside. I have lost numerous pairs of undies, a pair of pants, some of the kids’ art, pens, an expensive bra (one of only 3 that actually fit me properly), Aaron’s favourite shoes have a shoelace chewed clean off, and countless non-dog toys. At first she stole whatever was on the floor. We obviously started getting vigilant about putting things away, so now she takes things off shelves, out of laundry baskets, off tables, and off desks. Things we would be happy for her to chew up outside, like small tree branches get taken inside and chewed to bits on Daniel’s pirate lounge. The other day, she brought an earth worm inside and put it on the couch. The night after that, she brought in two snails (one without a shell by the time she got it inside), a cockroach, and a cricket. After playing with bugs to the point of death, she enjoys rolling on them to ingrain their stink into her fur.
One of Hannah’s lovely drawings all chewed to pieces on the couch
7. Dream: Visions of leisurely morning jogs with a dog running quietly by my side filled my head.
Reality: She is practically running on two legs because I have to hold her back so much, whilst at the same time she is darting this way and that, almost taking me out with every stride. Even when I hold the leash below the handle to make it shorter, she still manages to trip me up. Sometimes she stops suddenly. The whole run is spent with my arm muscle engaged in vain attempts to keep her at only one of my sides. The other night when I took her for a run, I dropped my phone after nearly falling over her and decided walking would be the safest option. So much for our exercise.
The last run I tried to take Rosie on.
9. Dream: Once trained, naughty behaviour would be a thing of the past. Puppies don’t know what they aren’t supposed to do until you teach them.
Reality: Rosie does know what she is not supposed to do. She just waits to do it until we’re not looking. If we catch her in the act, she runs off immediately after only a glance in her direction.
10. Dream: The backyard we worked so hard to get looking nice, with lush green grass and a cleaned up cement patio thing would look a whole lot nicer with an adorable puppy running around.
Reality: Rosie is a digger. Everyday she digs holes. As soon as we fill them in, she digs them up again, past bare earth to the point of dangerous ankle grabbing holes. Bits of stuff she steals and chews up adorn the lawn and patio. The thick plastic sheet I put on her dog crate when it’s outside is being systematically torn up each day and the little bits of chewed up plastic are strewn about on the patio, lawn, and even in the house.
Little bits of black plastic are everywhere
One of the lawn holes. Aaron tried to plant grass seeds in it after filling it up, but that didn’t last very long.
She will settle down with age, right?
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Aaron’s underwear. Hannah’s and Daniel’s. Mine. Clean. Dirty. New. Old. The underwear monster is firmly against discrimination. At first our undies were only stolen if we carelessly left them on the ground, or in a newly folded clothes pile we lazily didn’t put away.
As we caught on to the underwear monster though, we started making sure our undies were never, ever left out. As soon as they are folded, we put them away. When we get undressed for showers or baths, we put our undies high up, out of reach until it goes in the hamper afterwards.
For a while, due to our vigilance, our underpants were safe. But the underwear monster couldn’t resist. She brazenly found new ways of fuelling her underwear addiction. Despite the hamper being much taller than she is, she somehow managed to steal underpants without detection. Today alone, I’ve lost two pairs. They are now so full of holes that I had to put them in the bin.
When the kids forget to close their bedroom door, the underwear monster sneaks in, like a ninja in the night and snatches Hannah’s underwear from its home in a Dora the Explorer hanging pouch thing. I think it’s supposed to house shoes, but whatever, underwear fits there too.
There is no stopping the underwear monster, she is an addict and underwear is her crack.
The underwear monster aka Rosie
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Hannah LOVES prep. When she’s not at prep, she wants to play prep. First we dress all of her dolls, then we sit them down together somewhere in her room, and then she pretends to be the teacher.
Yesterday, she taught them about unicorns:
“I’m going to tell you about unicorns. Unicorns are real. They are pink with white horns,” she told her class of dollies confidently as she held up a plush example.
“They eat lettuce and butterflies.” At this point, I made sure my giggles were well stifled. She was doing such a good job of thinking on the fly, projecting her voice, and speaking confidently, but I wasn’t expecting her to say they eat butterflies.
“When unicorns see other unicorns,” she continued, “they bite their tails.”
“That’s all we know about unicorns.”
Thanks Hannah, now we all know a little bit more about unicorns.
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“Mommy, can I lick my train?” Daniel asked me as he held up one of his Thomas engines.
“No, don’t lick your train buddy.”
“Can I lick my hand?”
“No, don’t lick your hand, who knows what your hands have been touching.” I told him, thinking of dirty dog toys, dirt, grass, boogers, etc.
“My penis.” He told me matter of factly.
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A comment my mom made on one of my blog posts the other day made me remember something funny that happened on my very first trip to Australia almost 13 years ago.
My exchange sister Lauren and I were going to her boyfriend (at the time) Michael’s house with Aaron. We were probably wagging (skipping) school to play video games since we were naughty like that, but it also could have been after school. Either way, Michael didn’t have his key.
“It’s ok, we keep a spare one under the pot plant,” Michael said.
“You have a POT PLANT???!!!!” I exclaimed, surprised. “Isn’t there a cop living right next door?”
“Um…yeah, he doesn’t care about our pot plant.” Michael told me, as the others looked at me strangely.
“That’s illegal where I come from. You can’t have pot plants in the U.S.” I told them.
“What?! Why? What’s wrong with pot plants? Pretty much everyone has them here.”
My eyes must have been as wide as saucers. Why would everyone have pot plants? I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
As I stood there, rather dumfounded, Michael lifted up a pot that contained a pretty flower.
“Oh, you mean POTTED plant.”
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Princess dresses, fairy outfits, tiaras and handbags were being strewn about on the playroom floor as Hannah searched for a specific costume.
“I want to wear a purple skirt.” Daniel told me, eying the purple dress that landed at his feet.
He carried the item in question over to me and I helped him put it on.
Dressing up is fun for ALL little kids.
“Here Daniel,” Hannah said as she put a purse over his shoulder.
He slipped his feet into a pair of Hannah’s plastic dress up heels. “I’m walking, I’m walking!” He told us, excited that he could walk in them without falling over.
Hannah grabbed the hot pink wig and placed it on Daniel’s head.
“NO, I’M NOT HAVING PINK HAIR.” He told us disgustedly while flinging it off his head.
Dress: Fine
Purse: Welcomed
Heels: Super fun
Pink wig: Absolutely not.
The line has been drawn.
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Mommy Adventures 