Tuesday, June 5, 2012

On poop

So, I'm going to make a new post every day starting today in order to celebrate the guest post that I was asked to contribute at Dadcentric this Friday. Here's today's:

My wife is always telling me to use the proper terms for things. For instance, she hates it when I say something like, "Fiddlesticks! Addison just kicked me in the nuts!" She'll glare at me and whisper, "That sounds so gross, don't call them that. They're testicles." Okay. Though now I kind of want to call them "fiddlesticks." So, which sounds worse? Poop, or defecation? The "proper" term sounds a little like "desecration," to me (which I suppose it could be, in some circumstances). Or like something that would require you to go to the hospital. There's also "defenestration," which is very different, but still not recommended, especially in Prague. And they all sort of point to "castration," which makes me a little uncomfortable as well. Honestly, I'm inclined to stick with "poop."

Anyway, let me just state that I do wash my hands after changing Addison's poopy diaper (good that I only included this after the break, right?). Most of the time. A lot of it, anyway. Ha, just kidding, I always do. Now you're wondering, but whatever. It's all natural and organic, right? But really, I do wash my hands. But if I was ever stuck out in the middle of nowhere, like on a mountain or something, and a clepto squirrel had just stolen all the wipes, Addison and I would be okay, you know? There's always pine cones, and tree bark, and flat rocks . . .

My feelings about bodily waste have mellowed out a little bit in the years since Addison was born, though I know it doesn't work that way for everyone. I was present at a get-together when the other dad saw his toddler wander over and touch the rim of the toilet, and he screamed to his wife, "Get her! GET HER! She touched it . . . ," incomprehensible blubbering, ". . . oh Lord, she touched it." I looked at my wife and raised my eyebrows. The other dad had to sit down while he tried not to hyperventilate. I had the urge to pat him on the back and say, "It's gonna be okay, dude, it's gonna be okay." Everyone deals with stuff in different ways, I guess, and it's tough if you're not the one who usually has diaper duty. It's like he'd never seen a blow-out or anything. There's worse things than the rim of a toilet.

When Lindsay first suggested we try cloth diapering, I told her that I draw the line at putting my hands in the toilet. So then she explained the sprayer that we could use for cleaning, and how I'd probably only ever get a little poop on me, and I'd never have to plunge my precious hands into the yawning maw of the porcelain monster. And after a while, I ended up taking over the diaper washing to use as leverage for the day I unveil my home theater plans (it'll be epic).

So, three cheers for "just a little poop." And apologies to the masses who prefer not to talk about poop all the time. It's just a big part of my life right now.

Addison in one of her first cloth diapers: