Poop-tastrophy

When you have children, you pretty much understand that your life will forevermore be filled with poop.

You'll be changing poopy diapers, analyzing poop for content, texture, and frequency, and discussing poop with everyone you come in contact with; whether you know them or not.

It's just a fact of life for a parent.

You deal with it and move on (hence the blatant use of the word poop).

But one thing you can look forward to is that the occurrence of all these things will slowly dissipate over time (though it never completely goes away).

Your child will reach a certain age where you no longer have to monitor their bowel movements quite so closely and you don't have surprise messes welcoming you as you enter certain rooms.

With my oldest son that is pretty much how it went

For the first year I was on top of the dirty diaper situation like flies on...yeah, and as he got older I didn't have to worry quite so much about all the drama that seems to come with that particular body function.

He got older, the messes became fewer. Simple math.

With my youngest however, things are...different.

A lot different.

He seems to have a fascination with his fecies. Always playing with it, smearing it, and basically creating a mess that I have to later clean up (and shower from when I'm done).

Which is why I resorted to taping his diaper onto him (which I wrote about in the post Losing My Mind And The Duct Tape) until a few months ago.

Well last week (naturally on a day that was most inconvenient) the little demon he decided once again to entertain his inner barbarian and use his excrement as both a toy and a decorating tool.

I'm sure for him it was entertaining using the warm, squishy stuff as mud for the hotwheels. Why wouldn't it be? He's a 2 year old boy.

And that picture on the wall? I'm sure in his mind it was a complete masterpiece.

To me? Not so much.

We had company coming for the holidays and I had already spent the last 2 days scrubbing the boys' rooms for every last piece of leftover mess they had hidden. The last thing I wanted to do was clean poop-topia.

I mean really, it's been a successful 4 months without the duct tape and I was hoping we had made it through that little phase. This was the last thing I was expecting.

But maybe I'm thinking about this all wrong.

Perhaps instead of thinking of it as a wall covered in human waste, I should be thinking of it as the work of the next Van Gogh.

Or perhaps it's not a group of little metal poop-wagons, instead it's my son honing his skills as the next world famous traveler learning to turn everything he can into a useful tool.

It's never going to happen. I'll never be that calm in a poop-tastrophy like this.

I'll probably still scream out my frustrations (don't judge, you do it too) and bang things around as I prepare to enter the bedroom of doom (tip-toeing as I go).

But in the back of my mind I will always know that maybe one day I will have that simple math equation I've been looking forward to. Where I'll be able to finally remove the duct tape and send him off to college.

Because, lord knows, I wont be taking it off again before then.