Poo. Always Poo.

I feel like someone should have warned me that this job was completely centered around bodily fluids. At least 50% of my day is doing chores, with another 40% dedicated to poo. (And yes, I’m aware that adds up to 90, not 100. That last ten percent is reserved for hiding in the bathroom and mainlining caffeine through a large-bore IV. Stop judging me.) Before I had kids, I didn’t even know the color or consistency of my OWN poo. Now I have five tiny poopers and could post an entire Pantone catalogue on a daily basis. Oh look, Boogie had apricots yesterday! When did we eat corn? Mom, is this normal? Gross. It’s all SO. GROSS.

This is, of course, completely setting aside the fact that I have two six year-old boys who think poo is not only the height of humor, but something to be celebrated. And there’s zero filter on this stuff, either. Noodle has actually extolled cashiers at Walmart with stories of his mammoth offerings to the porcelain gods, while just last week Roo came running out of the bathroom bare as an egg to tell the Uber Eats driver alllllll about his toilet exploits. (Ohmigosh, stop talking!! And why are you naked?!?) And I might hold out hope that this will pass with age, but I have a 36 year old brother, so I know that hope is a false one. I will spare you the details on why I know this, but trust me.

The other day, Noodle was in the bathroom and asked me to come in there. Having seen this movie already, I refused. I AM NOT INTERESTED IN WHATEVER YOU’VE DONE IN THERE. NOT EVEN A LITTLE. But he was absolutely insistent, and told me that there was “something on the mirror and he couldn’t get it off”. Hmm. Ok, well I might be interested if you broke my bathroom mirror. So I made a rookie mistake and went into the bathroom to check the mirror.

And guess what? There wasn’t poo on my mirror, which I’m sure is what you’re thinking. Oh no, the mirror was quite whole. Instead, it was Noodle cackling like a mad hen and pointing at the reflection of his truly gigantic poo in the toilet.

Well played, son. You’re revolting and I’m mildly concerned that you may have lasting intestinal damage, but well played. And now, it’s time for you to move out.

I already called the zoo. He’s not the right kind of poo-flinger to move in there. And I don’t have a lot in the pluses column for Noodle’s Kid For Sale flyer. All I can say is that your mirrors won’t get dirty, and if you can resist the temptation to strangle him there will never be a shortage of laughter.

Or poo. Always, always poo.