My kid loves my poop.

Parenting is a humbling enterprise. Daily you get reminders of what you’re bad at, where you fail, what your limitations are, and, if you parent with someone, what your spouse or co-parent does better than you.

Then there are the reminders from your kids that their whole lives depend on you. You. Wow. If that doesn’t humble you, you must be Dexter, but worse, as Dexter is the sociopath with a heart. Worse than Dexter is really bad.

This morning I got one of those humbling reminders of what a child’s love means. How complete it is. How total and absolute is their love for you. This morning I realized that Mary Tyler Son loves my poop. That’s right, my poop. My son loves my poop. He is as interested and enamored of my poop as I am of his. If that is not the height of love, I don’t know what is.

When I go to the bathroom, he wants to go with me. He is interested in what I need to void at the moment – – is it solid or liquid? He cares and wants to know. He asks if I want privacy and seems to understand that if I do, it must be two. Number two, that is.

I mean who else loves my poop? Not me. Certainly not my husband. Most of my friends don’t give a fig about my poop. Sheesh, some friends. My sisters or my brother? My poop isn’t even on their radar. My colleagues? Those bitches couldn’t care less. But Mary Tyler Son? Mary Tyler Son loves my poop. He asks about it, he likes to see it, he even contemplates it.

I kid, yes, I know, but honestly, realizing this morning that Mary Tyler Son had a relationship with my poop, that he thinks about it, and likes to be present for its launch, was a wake up call. This boy loves me. He loves his Mama. He won’t always care about my poop, but right now he does. How sweet is that?

Childhood is fleeting. I know that more than most. Right now I am in love with a boy who loves my poop. I am happy. I heart his poop, too.