The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Category: poop (page 1 of 3)

“Mommy, how did I get out of your tummy?”

I’ve told you before that our dinner conversations tend to be pretty, uh…colorful, much to my sweet husband’s dismay.

Well, we had another doozy this week.

This was one of those moments when you wish you had a video camera rolling. But since I didn’t (do we ever when we really need them?), I’ll have to attempt to reenact the dialogue from the way I saw it unfold.

It went a little something like this…

Mini-Me (10 y.o. girl): Mom, have you ever missed the bus and had to chase it to get on?

Me: I don’t think so. I had to walk to school when I was your age. But I did have to run my hardest through an airport once to catch a flight. You were with me, do you remember that?

Nature-Boy (13 y.o.): I remember that. You were crying and we were all running.

Mini-Me: You were crying? In an airport? RUNNING? With us? I don’t remember that!

Me: Well I was about 6 months pregnant with Bucket Head and we were going to Arizona to visit your Bubbie and Zaydie, and we were super late, and my e-ticket wouldn’t work, and it was a mess. But yes, we had to run, HARD. I was crying because I was stressed out and afraid. We made the flight though. Nobody wants to get in the way of a sprinting pregnant lady.

Bucket Head (5 y.o. boy): You mean, I was in your tummy and you were running in an airport? That’s so silly, Mom.

Me: Yep. You were in my tummy…and you were HUGE.

Bucket Head: But Mom? How did I get OUT of your tummy?

(Mini-Me and Nature Boy’s eyes widened with excitement and/or fright.)

Mini-Me: (stage whisper) Should I tell him, Mom?

Me: NO. Don’t tell him yet. Not now. We’re eating. Daddy doesn’t like when we talk about stuff like that at the table. And I should tell him, not you. But thanks for the offer.

Bucket Head: Does the doctor cut the baby out?

Me: Sometimes. Pass the sour cream, honey.

Bucket Head: Well one time? The news was on? And Mommy was up in her room texting? And I saw a Mommy having a baby on TV. She was going like this [he grabbed the table with both hands, tightly shut his eyes, and made a sustained difficult pushing sound] and then she pooped out her baby…right out of her BUTT! I don’t think I was supposed to be watching that show.

The rest of us: ::giggle::

The Gatekeeper: You have to tell him now. You can’t let him think that babies get pooped out.

Me: It’s not totally inaccurate. Remember the sausage and peppers?

The Gatekeeper: Dude. We’re eating.

Me: (To GK) You said to tell him! (To BH) Right, you probably shouldn’t have been watching that show, buddy. But no, that mom didn’t poop out her baby.

Bucket Head: Really? Because it looked like it was coming out of her butthole. And it was all gross like poop.

Me: Most babies come out of their Mommy’s vagina.

Bucket Head: WHAT? (Deadpan face.)

Me: Vagina. Babies get pushed out of vaginas. And it’s hard work, so Mommies have to push and grunt and it’s messy. But it’s awesome.

Mini-Me: (Very concerned) But mom? A baby’s head is like this big, and a vagina is only that big. Do vaginas stretch out THAT much? (Holding her hands out like the size of her dinner plate.)

Me: Yep.

Mini-Me: How long do they stay stretched out like that?

Me: Oh…pretty much forever. Why do you think I wear such big pants?

The Gatekeeper: (Slowly shakes head in defeat.)

Mini-Me: I’m never having sex, ever.

Bucket Head: I AM. I want to poop out a baby! 

I don’t really remember what happened next, because I was laughing too hard.

And end scene. 

hide and seek bucket head

 

I’m fighting the winter blues, one juicy page at a time

Welcome to The Bearded Iris

Hello friends! (::sniff sniff, wag wag, lick lick::) I’ve been missing you!

Sorry to stay away for so long.

I’m totally engrossed in a book.

It’s a book that I’ve read at least twice before, maybe three times.

But it’s one of those books that beckons me back every now and then. (And inspires me to use fancy words like beckons in my blog posts.)

Apparently I’m not the only one. This book (and the subsequent series) has legions of devoted fans.

It’s Outlander, by Diana Gabaldon.

It takes place in the very unhygienic mid-eighteenth century and it’s inspired me to write a list of the Top 5 Things I Could Never Live Without. It’s In The Powder Room today. Please join me over there and we’ll discuss fun things like thunder buckets and camel balls.

And if you are up for some more fun, check out this piece I wrote last month and never got around to sharing. But be warned, it includes my favorite viral YouTube video from 2012 and it is totally addictive!

I’m so grateful you are here with me and I hope to share many more laughs, tears, discussions, and fresh smelling bear hugs with you in 2013!

Yours truly,
Leslie

Hot Turd Time Machine

Oh Monday, you ignorant slut.

It’s been raining here in North Georgia for about 24 hours straight and normally that makes me just want to climb back into bed.

photo of raindrops on my jasmine vine

But I have a little bounce in my step today because Jessica from the beautiful blog Four Plus an Angel invited ME to guest post!

I don’t get a lot of invitations for things like that ever since I wrote about Lady and The Tramp doin’ it doggie style at my friend Megan’s old blog Declutter Daily. *sigh* (Sorry about that, Megan.)

Jessica, like Megan, is a very brave woman though. She reached out to me to participate in her summer series about funny summertime memories. I bothered her all weekend with questions like “Is it okay if I swear?” and “How about poop? Can I write about poop?” and “Can we hang out sometime and paint each other’s toes and have a pillow fight like in the movies because you’re really pretty.” She never responded to that last one. Huh.

So…spoiler alert. There is poop. And maybe a swear word or two, I don’t even know anymore. And I guess I owe my Mom and apology too for being such a stinker all the time. Sorry Mom.

Just a reminder, my comments here are closed for the summer, but you can chat me up today at Four Plus an Angel, the Twitter, and Facebook.

yours truly,
Leslie (aka “Iris”)

A Full Circle Sausage Moment

read me in the powder roomChildbirth stories: they aren’t for the faint of heart…or stomach. But like most challenges in life, the end product can make the humiliation sting just a little bit less. And by end product, I mean baby, and by humiliation, of course I mean poop. You can read about my first, far from idyllic birth experience, In the Powder Room today. Bring some wet-wipes.

shit happens - a really crappy childbirth story

And as an extra special bonus like a good meaty placenta, my friend Glen, aka “The Regular Guy,” and I have teamed up to present a “he said/she said” take on childbirth. Glen has written a delightfully funny piece titled “Childbirth is not for ladies.” Do yourself a favor and read his column today too. He absolutely slays me every week.

fondly and with a firmly ingrained aversion to sausage,

-Iris

The best laid plans often turn to biohazards. No? Just me?

Damn. It. To. Hell.

I had big plans today! BIG plans to write something serious and heart wrenching and important.

And then my friend dropped her 5 year old son off at my house for an early morning play date and preschool carpool so she could go volunteer at her older child’s school.

Now normally, this would be a pretty uneventful morning. Bucket Head and his “Little Buddy” are really cute together. They play well, they take turns, they keep their clothes on (for the most part); they’re very low maintenance as a dynamic duo.

Well, there was that one time that I walked in on them taking turns touching our dog’s butthole and saying “It’s okay to touch it on the outside, but don’t put your finger INSIDE it. He doesn’t like that.”

Boys.

I like having Little Buddy around. He keeps Bucket Head busy so I can write. Which is exactly what I was doing when I heard him come out of the powder room and say to Bucket Head “You know what took me so long? I was pooping. And it was a little messy. But don’t worry, I cleaned it up.”

I rounded the corner faster than a pageant mom chasing her long lost youth.

There, in my hallway, stood Bucket Head and Little Buddy, holding hands and walking toward the play room.

{GASP!}

Suddenly everywhere I looked was tainted with a brown cloud of micro-bacterial filth.

“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, BOYS!” I blurted, probably a little too loudly. “Buddy, did I just hear you say you had a messy poop?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘messy poop’?”

“Well, when I was wiping? I got a big blob of poop on the toilet paper. And also on my hand.”

(Oh my God.) “And then what did you do?…uh, Sweetie.”

“I wiped the poop off my hand with toilet paper. And then I used more toilet paper to wipe the toilet seat. And the handle. And the wall.”

(NOOOOOOoooooooooooooo.)

“The wall?”

“Well…I was reaching for more toilet paper and I accidentally touched the wall.”

“Oh…I see. Okay. It happens. Then what did you do?”

“I washed my hands.”

“With soap?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes ma’am.” (We live in the South. That’s considered good manners, especially when you’re scared and want a grown up to like you and not think you intentionally smeared feces on their wall like a rabid howler monkey. Uh, just guessing.) 

“Did you use LOTS of soap?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure, Honey? Because we need to make sure you don’t have any poop on your hands.”

“Yes ma’am. I’m sure.”

“And did you dry your hands with that towel over there?” (As I pick up the hand towel by the very corner and carry it toward my washing machine like it might detonate any second.)

“Yes.”

“Okay. Just to be on the safe side, I think we should ALL wash our hands again, m’kay?”

“Okay.”

And so we did…in another bathroom, because I couldn’t even fathom the thought of touching those sink handles until after I had time to don a Hazmat suit and break the seal on a new bottle of Clorox.

So yeah. And that’s why I’m once again writing about poop instead of something more important like mental health, or civil rights, or The Bachelor hometown visits.

Poor Buddy. I hope his mom doesn’t mind that I gave him a Silkwood shower.

Or that the kids were late to school.

Or that we’ll only be doing play dates at public parks from now on.

Suddenly dog proctology seems so normal and sanitary.

Yours truly, and now with extra germ-killing action,

-Iris

Just the Tip Tuesday: Have Fun with Your Leftovers

Do you like a good underdog story? Then please “like” The Bearded Iris at Babble.com’s list of the Top 50 Mom Blogs.  Three months ago I was ranked at #891. Today I’m #10 (OMG!!!). My readers are THE BEST. Just sayin’.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled blogging…

Last week I was trying a new crock pot recipe for chipotle beef tacos. It wasn’t great; totally not worth sharing, unfortunately. However, I did come up with a great kitchen tip in the process that might be of use to you.

But first, it’s time for another riveting installment of:

Real Conversations, Really Bad Parenting.

Her: “Mom? Why is there cat poop in the freezer? Is Gracie okay?”

Me: “That’s not poop.”

Her: “Looks like poop.”

Me: “It’s not poop. ”

Her: “SNOT POOP?”

Me: “It. Is. Not. Poop.”

Her:  “Then why does it look like poop?”

Me: “It looks like poop?”

Her: “MOM! Please. You know that totally looks like poop!”

Me: “Does it?”

Her: “MOM!”

Me: “Not my poop. I eat a lot of fiber.”

Her: “Ew. Mom! TMI! It looks like CAT poop. Sick cat poop.”

Me: “Great – you’re hired. Since you are such an expert on cat poop, you can scoop Gracie’s litter box from now on.”

Her: “Ugh. Mom. That’s not fair.”

Me: “SNOT FAIR? Ew! I’m totally not buying a raffle ticket there, I’ll tell you that much.”

Her: “MOM!”

Me: “Honey, will you please hand me one of those cat turds from the freezer? Mama’s making soup.”

Her: “I’m running away.”

Me: “Take your brothers.”

* * * * *

I know what you’re thinking. “Iris wrote about poop. So unlike her!” In my defense, totally not my fault. SHE started it. My kids are so gross. Must get it from their Dad.

This all fits together, by the way. Stay with me. I know it’s a stretch.

The recipe called for 2 tablespoons of pureed chipotle peppers in adobo sauce. I had a can of these, but it was a big can…way more than I needed.

So I pureed the whole can in my blender, scooped out the two tablespoons I needed, put the rest in a quart sized baggie, and was about to chuck it into the freezer for future use.

That’s when it dawned on me, “Wait…how am I going to access two tablespoons (or so) of this stuff the next time I need it if it’s all frozen together in a big clump?”

I thought about spooning it from the baggie into a plastic ice cube tray and freezing individual portions like I used to with fresh baby food, but I’m too lazy to wash ice cube trays after the fact and that oily red adobo sauce stains like a mofo.

That’s when a great big eco-friendly compact fluorescent light bulb appeared over my head.

I know! I’ll just cut the tip off the baggie and squirt individual portions onto freezer paper and freeze the blobs. Once they’re frozen, I’ll store them in a freezer baggie!

So that’s what I did. And it totally worked like a charm.

And I think it’s just an added bonus that the blobs totally look like sick cat poop.

These are the blobs before I froze them. (Anyone humming the Diarrhea Boom Boom song?)

One frozen blob of the chipotle pepper puree.

Bag o' frozen blobs.

By the way, two tablespoons of this stuff is pretty flavorful and spicy. I’m thinking one tablespoon would be plenty of seasoning the next time I make something chipot-licious. I’m pretty sure I can use a sharp knife and cut those frozen pepper puree turds in half though, easy peasy.

Sure hope I don’t find any tapeworms in there when I do.

-Iris

© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.


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