Posts Tagged ‘Poop’

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Dear Eddie, Love of My Life,

I read “Toddler barfs in the car, dad freaks, epic text exchange ensues” today and laughed so freakin’ hard.

You know why.

What do you mean you don’t?

Sure you do.

It was July 2005. We were coming back from spending a few days with our friends in Daytona Beach. At six months old, Dominic was already swimming. (People can try to dispute that fact, but we have the video evidence.) Despite the fact that it was a short-ish drive home, we decided to stay overnight at a hotel with a pool to give Dominic more water time.

We found a good prospect off I-95, and I went in to ask about vacancies. (This is during the dark ages, i.e., pre-iPhone days.)

I came out of the hotel with bad news to find you honking and gesturing wildly at the baby. I opened the door to the back seat and looked at Dominic.

“How did he get ahold of chocolate?,” I thought.

“Oh God, that’s not chocolate,” was my next thought.

I’m a mom, so I sprang into action.

“You get the car seat,” I barked. “I’ll handle the baby.”

I stripped that poor kid down to the nude on the sidewalk. I grabbed him around the middle and walked around the hotel to find a hose. Yes, a hose. I hosed him down right there in front of the window into happy hour at the hotel. When you have a screaming, naked baby covered in poop, you do not care about civility. Or, apparently, water temperature (sorry, Dominic).*

I’m not sure you knew all the above as you were dealing with a ripe car seat. As I recall, we had to quarantine the car seat cover in a trash bag and let Dominic sit strapped into towels the rest of the way.

It’s the Dad Panic that makes this story and the barf story above funny. Why was the guy’s first order of business post-barf to call his wife? What could she do over the phone? Why did you immediately start honking?

The world may never know.

Anyway, he was OK, we were OK, and now we have a great story to tell.

Love you, even if you did freak out that one time,

*People reading this: Do not call DFCS. Dominic was then, and is now, totally fine. He was used to roughing it. We didn’t have baby wipe warmers.


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Sign here

Our journey through France, Switzerland and Germany taught me plenty. It was because I was open to all the signs, of course.

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I haven’t posted about the chickens, Shelly and Jeanne, for a while.

It’s because I hate them.

They started it. They hated me first.

It doesn’t help that they are so much stinkier and messier than Trish was.

But they do seem more interested in me lately. They haven’t run quite as fast when I come out to give them food and water. And they’ve been peering in the window of the playroom, almost as if they are interested in what’s going on inside the house.

Jeanne and Shelly, Peeping Hens

But as they are looking in, certain someones are looking out.


This does not bode well.

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Though it pained me to do it, I cleaned out Trish’s coop last weekend. (Sad.) Shelly and Jeanne had grown fast, and it was almost time for them to take over the coop.

I knew the time had come last night when I heard a commotion. My feathered friends had found their wings and were pretty darn excited about it. I wish I had a recording of their chirps.

This morning, they moved into the coop.

They seem pretty happy about it. It is a much bigger place, with no nosy, noisy neighbors. Shelly likes the yard, while Jeanne plans to become involved with the neighborhood association. She heard about the crime in the area, and wants to make sure she does all she can to keep the place safe.

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I’m supposed to be working on my dissertation proposal (oh that old thing), but I don’t want to neglect my blog and leave my faithful readers hanging. That’s assuming I have any, of course.

So here is a Trish anecdote for purposes of amusement (and stalling).

I was in the kitchen yesterday when I heard a knock at the front door. I thought it was weird because we have a functioning doorbell. This is what I saw when I walked around the corner:

"Anyone home?"

"I said, is anyone home?"

Apparently, this was not the first time she has come calling. Eddie said she banged on the door Friday too, and the boys cracked up.

I wonder what she would do if I let her inside. Besides poop, that is. And I certainly don’t want THAT in here.

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As you know, the wing-clipping didn’t work; Trish leaves her yard every day and roams the neighborhood. We’ve become “those people.” But I wonder which is worse: a huge, burning pile of refuse (thanks, Wayne) or a chicken with a sense of adventure.

Dominic is as interested in her poop as I am, it appears. He informed me this morning that he noticed some on the driveway where she has been moseying around. He asked me when I was going to clean it up.

Here is an image of Trish roosting in the crape myrtle at sunset. I’d like to see Thomas Kinkade tackle this.

Trish in her tree

Trish in her tree

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Yet another poop post

It’s been a crap-tastic week, literally and figuratively. There is a lot going on right now, and not a lot of it is good. Family health issues, mainly. Dissertation procrastination also.

Dominic just capped off the week with a shout from the bathroom: “Mama, will you wipe my butt?” Sigh. I’m going to remind him of this when I meet his first girlfriend. And much, much later, I’ll shout it myself in the nursing home. Ah, the joy of being very old or very young.

Suri Cruise poop sculpture

Suri Cruise poop sculpture

Above loveliness is from this article.

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