Poop is a major theme in my life right now.
Last week, the boyz and I were getting ready for a motherific time with our moms' group peeps at the local McD's. Each month we have a discussion group--we all eat, then send the kids off to climb and play and scream while the moms discuss various topics. This month we talked about finding me-time, as well as ideas for playgroups, field trips, and so on. The stuff of young childhood, and all that.
So while we were getting ready for all this fun I was putzing around the house, only half paying attention to what the kiddos were doing. I knew that the Littler One was hanging around the dog door, but I didn't hear the characteristic "flip, flop" that means he's just gone thru the dog door, so we were good. I did hear His Highness opening and shutting the sliding glass door, but whatever.
Soon, though, His Highness appeared. He was crying and looking very distressed in general.
"Mommy! The Littler One's eating poooooop!"
"Really? He's really eating poop?"
"Yes! He's eating pooooooop!"
It was fitting for His Highness to be so concerned for his brother. When His Highness was little, he stuck his hand in his diaper one time and pulled out a handful of his own poop. He looked at me with mischievous eyes and I said, "Don't do it." Well, he did it and was immediately very sorry indeed. We never again had to tell him not to eat poop.
Anyway, I walked over to the back door and saw the Littler One seated comfortably on the deck, munching away on what could have been a hunk of beef jerky, except that instead of beef jerky it was dried dog poop.
What's worse, the Littler One seemed quite content with the state of things. He looked at me as if to say, "Oh, hey Mommy! Look, I found a crunchy snack; aren't you proud of my resourcefulness?"
Frankly, I was a little impressed, but this was outweighed by extreme disgust. I scooped up the Littler One, wrangled the poop jerky out of his hand, and took him inside. Along the way I lectured His Highness about not letting his brother outside, making him use the dog door instead, and so on. As I gave the Littler One the once-over I saw a smug sort of look on his face, which in children his age usually means they're munching on something with what few teeth they have. Sort of like chewing baby-cud, except not really at all.
I knew what this meant. I had to do a mouth sweep. So I did, and came out with little bits of what had previously been dried jerky-poop, but was now fully-hydrated, soggy, dribbly poopy bits.
And he bit me. The Littler One has 5 teeth at the moment and quite enjoys biting anything that manages to find its way between those front top & bottom razor blades.
I rinsed my finger, wiped his mouth & overalls, and went back in. The second sweep went something like OUCH--sweep--whine--OUCH--sweep--whine. Then I got smart and wrapped a washcloth around my finger. It's as helpful as a mesh suit when swimming with sharks.
Finally satisfied that I had removed all the poopy bits, I released the Littler One with strict orders to stay inside (because he listens so well) and went off to scrub down.
Before I had kids I remember hearing gross stories and thinking, "Gosh, I wonder if I'll ever have stories like that." As if somehow I could avoid the grossest of the gross.
Now I'm wondering if I was smoking crack at the time...