poo.

big potty boy!, a photo by Luna Soledad on Flickr.

Mother’s Day, Sunday: In the afternoon, the children were playing out in the back yard while Kevin “supervised” from the deck smoking a cigar, grilling, and playing on his laptop. I was inside taking full advantage of the day with a Mother’s Day nap upstairs.

Suddenly, our son walks out of the “nature area” (the corner of the back yard that is completely out of control with briers, determined saplings, and overgrowth) and exclaims to his father, “Daddy! Piper is trying to eat my poo!”

Yes, our four year old son had gone behind a tree and taken a crap in the yard. He knows better of course and had done so completely covert, but was so taken by surprise at our idiot Jack Russel that he accidentally told on himself.

Try having that conversation with a straight face.

Of course the yard is much preferred to say, the air-conditioning shaft...

Once, when Liam was potty-training some time around one year of age, he discovered that he could lift the air vent covers off and put things down the hole such as toys, keys, clothing, paper, unwanted food, and anything else that would fit. I had been nagging Kevin to screw the vent covers down as digging out these treasures was becoming a real nuisance. Never did I imagine I would walk in the living room one day to find my young son taking a shit down the air shaft, but I did. And just as I spied him behind the couch taking care of business, he stands up butt-naked grinning and pointing to the open hole; “I poo,” he said proudly.

This was one such time I found myself too dumbfounded to take pictures. --Beneath the freshly deposited still-warm baby feces, were various toys and an old 35mm film camera - which all went straight into the trash. But at least the vents finally got screwed down, that day.

What in the world is with little boys and their fascination with poop? I’m beginning to think Freud was onto something...

"The act of birth is the first experience of anxiety, and thus the source and prototype of the affect of anxiety."

...Sigmund Freud

a perfectly good diaper.

baby + prunes..., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

So yesterday I took a break from life and lost myself in the safe, soothing labyrinth of words, wisdom, and personal amusement commonly referred to as "the bookstore." --The day had been such a downward spiral of aggravation riddled with angst and irritation that I had no choice but to remove myself from the rat-race and fade into some deliriously enjoyable escape that can only be found in solitude between the covers of a good book... I collected a pile to review, found a lone vacant chair, popped a Klonopin, wrote a few lines of nastiness in my red Moleskine, and thumbed through my selections waiting for the daggered edge to leave me.

After an hour or so, I calmly, coolly, and collectively rose from my hideaway and made my way toward the register, only to find myself distracted en route by a book entitled, "Sh*t My Kids Ruined." How could I not pick that up?

I stood alone in the store flipping page after page through a glorious pictorial of the joys of parenting in its finest moments... and the wake of destruction left behind by our spawn. Photographs of everything from microwaved Barbies and Hot Wheels cars... strewn cereal, baby powder, flour, condiments, and nearly anything imaginable found in a household that comes in a box or bottle... a carpet cleaner filled with a gallon of milk... fantastic poop catastrophes... the artistic devastation that only Sharpie markers can create - on leather sofas, carpet, cabinets, and walls... broken windows, appliances, shower doors, plasma TVs and laptops... and my personal favorite - that literally had me laughing out loud: a photo of someone's hard-earned college diploma from Louisiana State University completely adorned in a toddler's scrawl!

It was exhilarating! Like an unmistakable sign from the universe that screamed at me: "YOU ARE NOT ALONE!" Yay I thought! =D

And this little therapeutic antidote began as a website started by a fellow frustrated and no-doubt exhausted mother, whose pain (and comedy) I deeply feel.

I mean sure, I could probably write my own book complete with pictorials of shit my kids have ruined over the years -- from clothing, food, and furniture to floors, carpet, walls, VHS tapes and DVD's... beautiful days and perfectly good diapers... not to mention my sanity, which leads me to this post:

Once upon a time when Liam was but a wee lad of 7 months, the family unit and I set out for some quality time on a lovely spring Saturday in April (because like pets, you feel guilty if you don't take them for a walk once in a while). We spent a few hours at a local carnival and as it was such a lovely day, we decided to ride out to the beautiful Duke Gardens in Durham, North Carolina for some fresh air and sunshine in a scenic atmosphere in hopes of capturing some life long memories in photographs.

Well, we certainly accomplished that!

We pulled into a parking spot and began to disembark though quickly discovered, much to our disgust and horror, that we had had a major blowout. "O.M.G." cannot even begin to describe the sight I beheld...

I called to Kevin, who, cued by the panic-stricken shriek in my voice, bolted over to my side of the car where we both stood, mouths gaping open like black holes of disbelief at our darling, happily-smiling cherubic baby son, completely covered from head to toe in SHIT. Yes, that's right, s-h-i-t. --It looked as if this child, clothing, car seat and all, had be dipped into a well-used septic tank. How on earth one tiny being produced such an explosion of foulness I will never know. Wow. It was truly impressive. Not a proud moment mind you, but impressive none-the-less. Holy hell.

"Give him prunes she said..." Kevin finally says in his best wife-mocking voice breaking the spell -- just as shitty happy baby stops flailing his fat little arms and legs in delight -- and completely in slow-motion to the viewing world around him -- reaches up with his little diarrhea-coated dimpled fist and plants it right in his mouth!...

I'm not sure if I gagged first or shouted, "Nooooo!" while leaping with the stealth of a Cheetah to grab his hand (again it was all a slow-motion blur) but irregardless, my prey escaped me and thus the day forevermore became known as: "The Day Liam Ate Poop."

As I said, it was a beautiful spring day. A lovely day for a wedding in fact, of which there were two. --Imagine the looks of horror, disgust, judgment, and pity on the upturned faces of many an old money wedding guest crossing the parking lot adorned in their finest formals, off to celebrate the blissful unions of their loved ones. And here we were laughing hysterically and taking pictures (memories to last a lifetime ya know) engaged in the shit-fest of the century, disassembling a crap-covered car seat, with trash bags full of dirty clothes and yucky baby wipes - and a naked, brown-speckled baby on the asphalt.

I don't think I've ever felt like such a hillbilly in my life, though we did have the good grace to deposit our abundant garbage in the proper receptacles - only after of course giving baby Poo-zilla a quick sink bath in one of the wedding reception hall's bathrooms...

And yes Liam, my little love, you can expect to see this photo again one day... in your own wedding reception slide show! ;-)

"Ninety percent of everything is crap.”

...Theodore Sturgeon