This entire post is dedicated to the bowel movements of my children. If you do not have kids yet, but think you might want them someday, do not read on.
I wrapped my hands around diaper changing pretty quickly when Sam was born. The key, for all you new fathers, is to breath through the mouth. Because if you think your kid’s sh*t don’t stink, you’re sadly mistaken. Still, had we known of their existence four years ago, Leah and I could have dedicated a blog to Sam’s bowel movements.
The twins have had some memorable ones. But, be it the deadening of our nasal nerve endings, or the fact that we’ve changed so many diapers that we just don’t care anymore, they don’t seem to be in the same category as their older brother’s.
Sam actually knocked me backwards three steps when he was still a baby. I brought him into the nursery, tied him down to the changing table, and unfastened the straps to what I can only describe as a full diaper that was one step away from rotting flesh. The child’s poop made my knees buckle. I had to put my hand out and find the wall to regain my balance.
Sam has been potty trained for two full years. Leah worked a miracle, and in doing so saved a huge portion of our sanity, by accomplishing this before Noah and Aidan were born. Sam now wants to help with the potty training of his brothers, so we know there are no lasting mental scars.
There is one drawback to having Sam use our toilet.
Sam uses our toilet.
No, let me rephrase.
Sam abuses our toilet.
I am 33 years old. I have swallowed my fair share of foods and other things that my body has not appreciated. Sam is four. We have kept him on a better diet than either Leah or I have ever been. Yet the boy poops like he was dumping nuclear waste from his anal cavity.
I can’t go into the bathroom after him. Yes, you read it correctly. My preschooler son stinks up our bathroom so badly after he craps that you can’t breathe without gagging. The winter was particularly awful as we couldn’t open the window to air it out. The three candles we keep in rotation on the top of the toilet seem to melt even without flame.
And not only do they smell, they are large to the point of being scary. Sam is a typical male, and does not remember to flush all the time. When I have the privilege of discovering that he has left a deposit in the toilet, I am always tempted to don rubber gloves, package it, and send it to the folks over at Guinness Book of Records just to see if it would qualify.
There is one in our commode right now.
It’s been there since Sam left for his grandmother’s house this afternoon. It won’t flush. I’ve tried a half dozen times now, and it won’t go down. Our toilet should be declared a hazardous waste dump. I’m afraid to go near it for fear that Sam’s turd has evolved and will seek retribution for any further attempts to evacuate it down to the city sewers.
I can’t take my eyes off it. I feel as though it is following me as I walk out of the bathroom. The third floor master bathroom is quickly rising on my list of priorities. It might be the only way to survive.
