The Pool Is Closed

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"Hey, Dad? I couldn't do my swim class today."

"Why not?"

"The pool was con-tam-in-ated."

"Oh?"

(whispers) "This time someone poo-ed it."

Small Surprises

"Mom? I pooed."

"That's great, Babe. How was it?"

"It was in my underpants."

"Wait, what? Are you kidding?"

"I am very, very, very seewious."

Proud Times

"Mom! Mom! Come here! Hurry! Fast! Please, Mom! Mom!"

"What? Where are you?"

"I'm in here! Mom hurry! Mom!"

"Where's here?"

"Bathroom, Mom! Please, hurry!"

"What is it, Honey? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine! Look! I had a spaceship poo!"

"What's a spaceship poo?"

"It's a poop that looks like a spaceship."

"Of course."

"Isn't it a beaut?"

"Yeah, Gramps. It certainly is."

Seasoned

Our canine Rosenberg, Daisy, has been a little off the past few days. She hurt her front passenger-side paw during a long run on Sunday. There has been noticeable improvement but while she's healing, she's doing a lot of sleeping. She takes turns laying on all of the soft surfaces in the house and is giving the mailman a few days off from her intense bark/howl greetings. There are many peanut butter snacks involved.

"Mama? Daisy pooped."

"Okay."

"No, no. In the house. She pooped in the house."

"Where?"

"On the rug."

"Which one?"

"In the living room."

"I'll get some paper towels."

"Mama? I touched the poop with my hand."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to see what it felt like."

"Fair enough. How did it feel?"

"All poop-y, I think."

"I guess that's a good sign."

"It's the first poop I ever, ever, ever, ever, touched."

"I wish I could say the same. I'm a seasoned veteran."

"It's the season of summer now."

"It is."

The Latest Move

In the last few months, I’ve been working a lot with Bob to recognize when I am on the phone and during that time to not interrupt me or make loud noises or follow me around playing a harmonica or activate the toy garbage truck that repeatedly yells, “Ew! What smells?” So far, it’s going okay about 30% of the time.

I was on the phone on Thursday afternoon. A friend was relaying some serious information and I was concentrating on the conversation. I was proud that Bob was playing quietly in his room and this time had not translated the ringing of the phone as an invitation to lay down a drum solo.

A few minutes into my call, Bob appeared at my side and whispered, “Pardon me, Mama.” He then picked up my hand and set something lightly inside my palm. I excused myself from my call and looked into my hand. I was holding what appeared to be one sugar cube sized turd.

“Bob? What is this?”

“A poop.”

“Why do I have it now?”

“I didn’t have time to make it to the potty and I didn’t want to poop in my pants so I pooped into my hand. Now you have it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you off the phone now?”

“Yes, I am."

"Now can we play with the Star Wars Lego guys?"

"Well played, Bob Rosenberg. Well played.”

Star Wars: Nutritional Guidelines

“I need to teach Luke and the Skywalker family about healthy food. I will also teach Jabba the Hutt about good things to eat. Good things are things that are good like pancakes and eggs, healthy eggs, and string cheese, and pizza, and macaroni and cheese and cheese. Darth Vader likes fruit juice and lemonade with half water in it so it’s not too sweet. Chewbacca and Greedo need healthy drinks and food too like grapes and some cheese. Maybe we should make it in one place and take them all to Drinks and Food School and I will teach them. C-3PO and R2D2 don’t have food because they are very usual machines. Darth Vader needs help. He will need snacks. Darth Vader can’t feed himself anymore because of all the evil. So, Mama?”

“Yes, Bob?”

“Is my food inside my body turning into poop right now?”

“Yes.”

"That's good."

That Guy

During dinner, Bob asked to be excused from the table and ran to the bathroom. He shut the door behind him. Jeff and I continued our conversation and then stopped when we noticed strange noises coming from the restroom. Bob was moaning and wheezing.

As his mother, I believe my first thought should have been, “Is my son hurt?” Followed quickly by, “Does he need help?"

Instead, my first (run-on) thought was, “Jesus. He’s already the kid with his hand down his pants all the time, now he’s going to be the moaning guy in the bathroom stall? He’s Grunting Guy? How old do you have to be to lose that nickname? Isn’t that something that goes on your permanent record?” My glorious exercise in not staying in the moment was interrupted.

“Buddy, are you OK in there?” said Jeff.

“I am trying to breathe out fire!”

“Fire?”

“I’m a dragon. I’m practicing for dragon school.”

Fine. We still need to work on the hand down the pants thing.

Seriously?

My money is on one of these guys.

We have white sheets on our bed which, save for 10 minutes every Tuesday, are covered in pet hair, sand and dirt clods brought into the house from various mammals. I leaned back against the sort of white pillows today with Bob, who pulled on the raggedy pop-up pages of The New Yellow Bulldozer. Bob stopped suddenly and pointed to a dirt smear on the bed.

"Is that poop?'

"I don't think so, honey. It's probably dirt. Did you smell it?" Bob leaned down to the sheet and took a big whiff. Then the hollering began.

"It's poop! There's poop in the bed! It smells like poop here! Our house is all poo-ed! It's stinky in the house and bed! Everywhere is poops! Poop!" He took off, waving his arms and ran through the living room.

Because taking him at his word would have been too easy, I leaned down and smelled the sheet for myself. He was right. I gagged a little. I lifted Jeff's pillow. More poop smeared there. Who was responsible? As usual with situations of this nature in our house, it could have been anyone. (You know who you are.)

Philosophy 101

Bob and Jeff were in the backyard yesterday playing wiffle ball. As always, it didn't take long before the conversation topic turned to poop.

“Daddy? Remember that time Daisy ate my poo poo?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I do.”

“When Daisy ate my poo poo and then she had a poo poo, was it still my poo poo?”

“Hmm. Kind of? It’s complicated.”

I think Bob’s philosophical question in the realm of subjective idealism takes a certain amount of excrement-y genius. Or he's just really opposed to sharing anything.