…i don’t always like it but it’s my job…
Motherhood applies to this phrase, as do the other hats I wear. This, however, is not what I’m referring to specifically.
Now, listen. I don’t like to talk about poop. I really don’t. I do feel, however, at certain times in my life that it is my civil duty, as a good, law-abiding citizen, to do so. Allow me to clarify a few things first.
1. I am not a boy. Pooping, its contents, farting, and other bodily functions do not make my day bright and cheerful.
2. I will never be that person that relays the following story to anyone I know or come upon: “Dude, I was taking a major dump the other day and I stood up…and I swear this snake was staring at me all twisted up and with beady little eyes. Except…it wasn’t a snake at all. It looked like one. Well, it sort of looked like a “w” too. Either way, I took a picture of it with my phone. Look at this. What does it look more like, a snake or a “w?” Oh. You think it looks like the US/Canadian border? Yeah, I can see that too. Let’s see what (insert name here) thinks. I texted it to my dad and my brother’s boss. They haven’t responded yet.” This leads me to number 3.
3. I will never be “that” person. The one that takes pictures of mine or my kids poo. Why? Because we all know what crap looks like. Theirs is just mini.
Now about this not liking it but it being my job. Poop.
Matt got crapped on three times this weekend. I laughed. He was being a turd (no pun intended) and I feel this was Tripp and the universe telling him that he needed to cut the bull sh** (again, no pun intended).
Round 1 didn’t involve a “roll away meatball” type poo, it was a “when you change it the smell hangs around for hours and easily gets on anything” type poo. He thought maybe the baby had drooled on the pillow. Then he looked down and saw it was, in fact, Tripp’s rear that had thrown up all over everything including the pillow upon which he rested. Tripp 1 – Matt 0.
Round 2. Getting ready for church on Sunday. Sundays are a great day for a throw down in our family. Tensions are high. Matt’s getting Tripp ready to go into his carseat and all I hear is, “CRAP!” I casually walk into the room to see Matt holding Tripp at arm’s length with what appeared to be mustard stains on his shirt and pants. If it weren’t for the fact that it was a Sock-it-to-ya Sunday, I would have asked him why he was eating mustard so early in the morning but, alas, I digressed. Tripp 2 – Matt 0
Round 3. Ah, yes. Round three. The third time’s a charm. The third cut is the deepest. Wait. No? Ok. Whatever. I was trying to give you three of three. See where I’m going with this? Ugh. You ruined it. Anyway. Round 3 I present to you in the form of a simple haiku:
dad can’t ever catch a break…
baby wins again