I GOT NOTHING. HELP ME.
This morning, our youngest made a poop. This is significant for reasons you do not want me to detail here. Suffice it to say, POOP!
The three of us — Mama, Daddy, and boy — were standing over the toilet as it was flushed. “Bye bye, poop!,” I exclaimed, except, oops, that poop was going nowhere. Being a stubborn one, it stuck around. My boy flushed again and that one did the trick.
Daddy and I were smiling and walking away when my boy looked up at me, his face twisted in sadness, his tears flowing as freely as the water in the bowl. “I want my poop back! Make it come back! I want it back!” Oh my. He was serious. My boy was bereft that his poop had been flushed. Legitimately sad.
I took him to the next room because, well, poop smells, and sat him on my lap. “Sweetie, when we flush the toilet, the poop goes away.,” I told him. “We want it to go away. We can’t live in a house where we keep the poop. No one would want to live in that house.” My words were poor solace to a boy grieving his poop. “Bring it back! I miss my poop! I want to see it again!”
Hmmmm. This one was a new one on me. I vaguely remembered reading an article somewhere, years ago, about kids who miss their poop. What did it say? What? Did? It? Say? Hell if I know. I suppose I could Google it, but really, the need was immediate, so I had to act fast.
In the time honored traditions of motherhood, I made up a story. I seriously think this could be a kid’s book. No, really.
The Poop That Got Away
Mr. Poop jumped into the toilet. He was so happy to splash in the water. “Whee!,” he shouted, “This is fun!” Already having the time of his life, Mr. Poop started spinning and spinning and spinning. “WHOOAAAAAaaaaaahhhh!” And, just like that, he was gone.
The boy who had made Mr. Poop cried and cried and cried. He missed his poop. He was sad. Where had his poop gone? Why wouldn’t it come back? His Mama held him and told him all about poop and toilets and sewers. The boy thought all of that was nonsense. He simply missed his poop.
Mama wondered what the boy would do if the poop stayed. “Would you play with it?,” she asked. “Put it in your pocket? Give it a name? Place it on your pillow to keep you company while you slept?” She gagged a little as she asked these questions, thinking they were rhetorical. She was wrong.
“I would name him Mr. Poop and he would be my friend and we would go everywhere together and he would keep me company at school and the park and in my bath and the grocery store and we would be very, very happy together!”
The boy was having none of her logical arguments. Mama needed to up her poop game.
“But, Sweetie, poop would not be very happy with that kind of life. Poops like to play in the water and be with other poops. That is where Mr. Poop went — to be with his friends. He is having a blast at the poop water park. You’ve never seen anything like it, and you never will, because boys and moms are not welcome there. The poop water park is only for poops. They like it better that way.”
“Tell me more,” said the boy. He liked this story.
“Well, it’s a magical place, full of poop. Big poops and little poops. Mama poops and baby poops and daddy poops. Even big brother poops. The poops love to play together, splashing around, floating all over. There are snacks and foam noodles to play with and diving boards. It’s a little stinky, but the poops don’t mind. They like it that way.”
“Tell me more,” said the boy.
And that’s just what Mama did. She told the story of the poop water park and how it is where all the poops go to be together. She told her boy about how poops get lonely and they really love company. At the poop water park, there was room enough for every poop. The more the stinkier!
When she finished her story, Mama got serious and looked at her boy. “You know, Mr. Poop needs you. Our poops rely on us to keep sending them friends. They get lonely very easily and always love to welcome new friends. It is the best part of their day when a new poop gets flushed into the water park. All the poops celebrate the new arrival. Do you think you could make Mr. Poop a friend and send him along tomorrow?”
“Yes,” the boy said, equally serious, “I can.”
And he did. And so did Mama.
My husband and I have been sharing a bed for twenty years, give or take a month or two. TWENTY YEARS, PEOPLE. That’s a long time to do anything. For all of those twenty years we have been sleeping on a futon pad on the futon platform left over from my husband’s freewheeling bachelor days. And, yes, that makes me a 47 year old grown a$$ woman who still sleeps on her husband’s bachelor bed. Sigh.
But middle age is catching up with the both of us. That futon platform lies low to the floor, my friends, and that futon pad is getting thinner by the day. Add my bum knee, and that’s a long way up from a sleeping position. I have heard about the concept of “under the bed,” but that is not something I have experienced as an adult. Our under the bed is approximately three inches of space — just enough for the dust bunnies, but only if they’re thin.
But there comes a time to grow the hell up, at least while sleeping, so we recently decided to invest in a new mattress. A real mattress. One that doesn’t cause pain to our lower backs. One that doesn’t have peaks and valleys visible even when the bed is made. One that will double the width of our current twelve year old futon pad. One that doesn’t result in me wincing every time I roll over. Yes, it is time.
I am thrilled. It was supposed to be delivered last Friday. We went 21st century and ordered one of those mattresses that comes vacuum packed in a box. Alas, for unknown reasons, it never arrived and that little tracker thingy tells us today is the day.
TODAY IS THE DAY!
I celebrated this momentous occasion by going out yesterday to buy new sheets. I realized that a brand new mattress that magically pops up out of a box is deserving of some new sheets. I also realized that true grown ups probably have more than two sets of sheets.
Sheet shopping was its own kind of ordeal. I know that some super cool person who sits in some super fancy office building is who decides on the color palettes that Americans can choose from (yep, I watched The Devil Wears Prada), but damn, I think that super cool person in their super fancy office is clinically depressed this season.
The current sheet options range from Mustard Malaise to Seafoam Suicidal Ideation to Gloomy Grey. Dreary and glum, all of them. I finally found some kind of vintage-y, sort of cheerful prints at the fourth store I went to. The fourth store. Damn, you know you’re middle aged when a big day out is sheet shopping and you have the mental fortitude to go to four stores until you find a mostly suitable option that doesn’t cost more than the LuLaRoe outfit you’ve been eyeing for the past three months.
I am fairly convinced that the first morning I wake up on those new sheets on my new mattress my life will be transformed. Transformed. It is going to be the very first day of the rest of my life, folks! There is only room for amazing here. The birds will be singing, the sun will be shining, my little ones will have made their own breakfast. I can see it now . . .
That fact that all this full on restful joy will be happening on that same old futon platform from 1994 is a detail for another day.
If you want to read about another grown a$$ woman with a futon, click HERE!