A Day In The Life Of A Full Time Poop Cleaner

You think you know poop?  You might-but I. Know. Poop.  I was even a poop expert pre-baby.  As a nurse, I can tell alot by your poop.  What medications you take, whether you drink enough water, and-any nurse will agree-whether or not you have C-diff.  I’m not kidding.  I can seriously smell C-diff.  NURSES CAN TELL YOU IF YOU HAVE C-DIFF.  They won’t, though.  Because they aren’t supposed to-but they totally know.

I know what you’re thinking.  “THIS IS DISGUSTING WHY IS SHE TELLING ME THIS?!”  Because I want to warn you.  The story I’m about to share with you is all about poop.  Duh.

At home, I am in charge of the cat’s litter box (on weekdays) and of course, my son’s glorious little diaper gifts.  I take the dogs out once or twice a day.  **I feel like my husband will want you to know that he takes the dogs to the park every day-and that I never take them to the park.  Ever.  And that usually, the dogs are with him when they poop.**  Still, they poop sometimes with me.  I am often the one (due to my husband’s weird sleeping schedule) to clean up animal vomit and what-not.

So, here is what went down yesterday.  I brought my one year old son home from a very long car trip to a restaurant (50 miles away) and then to another restaurant (20 miles away) because the former was closed.  I got the pot roast and for the first time EVER it was awful.  I sent it back for some fried chicken that wasn’t ready until we were about to leave.  The point is, it had been a long day.

I get home and put my son down to get things in the house.  I’ve already given him a bath before dinner in hopes that he would be asleep when we get home.  Nope.  He starts to play and then suddenly stops.  Completely frozen in his familiar “I’m taking a giant dump” pose.  I wait.  As I am changing him, I notice his cute little tushy is a bit red.  I decide to let it air out a little before I put some cream on it and get him ready for bed.

This is when I notice that in the other room, the litter box has been removed 15 feet from its original location.  It is overturned, lid off, and the carpet is covered in poop-filled litter.  There is literally NO litter in the damned box.  We have wooden floors, but of course, as is my dog’s want, all of the litter and its contents are directly on top of the only rug in the entire stupid room.  Instead of getting insanely agitated, I decide to just go in there and clean it up before I even have a chance to feel sorry for myself.  Sometimes, when I have to clean up a mess like this, I get angry with the entire world.  Like God told the dog to go dump out the litter box because I deserve punishment for cursing at the lady who wouldn’t get out of the fast lane yesterday.

So, I clean it up.  Scoop the poop.  Throw it out.  Sweep the room.  Vacuum the rug.  Return the litter box.  Then, I go back to the den to get my baby ready for bed so I can CHILL THE HELL OUT.

As I walk into the den, I notice a familiar smell.  I wonder, “Is that just because I just scooped poop?  Nope.  That is definitely toddler poop.  Perhaps, it is from the diaper I changed when we got home.”  (Yes.  I really do wonder to myself like that.)  NOPE.  My sweet little angel has just had diarrhea in two separate locations of the room.  The fully carpeted room.  The child, who JUST took a dump and usually doesn’t take another dump immediately after, has pooped ALL OVER THE CARPET.  Oh, well.  This one is totally on me.  I’ll just throw a diaper on him, put his PJs on and off to bed he goes while I clean this up.  Right?  NOPE.

First, I wipe his precious little behind, then I slap a diaper on him, and as I pick him up to put his pajamas on him, I notice the bottom of his feet.  Both of them.  You’ll never guess what it was.  Kidding.  You will.  It was poop.  MORE POOP.  At this point, it is on baby AND mommy.  To the bath we go.

Thirty minutes later, we are both clean and ready for bed.  I put him in his crib and thank you JESUS he immediately lays down like “Thanks, Mom.  Today was exhausting.  Holla.”

I’m feeling a little better.  Calmer.  Cleaner.  I walk back into the den ready to relax when something mushy and wet on the bottom of my foot quietly reminded me that “UM. DUH. THE WHOLE REASON YOU JUST TOOK A BATH WITH YOUR BABY IS BECAUSE HE DROPPED A MAJOR DEUCE ON YOUR DEN FLOOR .”  I wash my feet.  I clean the carpet.   I am done for the day.  I finally give up on life and go to bed.  Tomorrow is a new day-and hey-shit happens.

My Mom Is The Worst

If your mother is anything like mine, it can freak you out when you find yourself saying or doing something the way she does.  My mother is truly saddened when she sees a young lady (like myself) who chooses not to wear make up or fix her hair.  It drove me nuts growing up.  I was a tshirt and jeans kind of kid.  I don’t think I ever actually fixed my hair until….well….11th grade?  Seriously.  And that was only occasionally.  I refused to wear contacts until then, too.  In hind sight, it is hilarious to me that these things bothered her.  She is the one who taught me to never pay full price for anything.  Abercrombie and Fitch was robbing people if they thought she was going to pay $50 for a tshirt.  SHE WAS RIGHT.  That is insane.  It’s a piece of cotton that has A and F on it.  YOU are PAYING Abercrombie to walk around and advertise for them.  When I was very little, I’m sure she fixed my hair, but once I got old enough to dress myself and whatnot, she never really said, “Okay, Becca.  This is how you fix your hair.”  She didn’t pick out my outfits.  I did.  I had the opportunity to make my own decisions and I chose to do what required the least amount of effort possible.  Which drove her nuts.  Which drove ME nuts.  We were very different people.  I was an early teen who hated school, girls who care about A and F, and most of all, my mother.  She. Was. The. Worst.  She wanted me to study.  She wanted me to do my homework.  She wanted me to SWEEP THE DINING ROOM LIKE I WAS SOME SORT OF HOUSE ELF.  What was wrong with her?  She was upset with me when my teacher called her and said that it looked like I may have forged her signature on my report card.  WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO, MOM?!  I GOT A C IN HISTORY!  She even made me call and apologize to my evil teacher like it was MY fault that she noticed that my mother’s handwriting looked different.  Then, when I decided I wanted to join a softball team because my best friend was doing it, she wouldn’t let me quit.  IT WAS HOT!  I was an awful softball player and she still made me stick with it until the end of the season.  She came to every game just to make sure I went.  Or to root me on.  I don’t know.  Moms, right?  Ugh!  Now, as an adult, I find myself doing things the way she did and it just totally freaks me out.  Here are some things I have to blame on my mother: Continue reading