Awh, Poop

I’ve never been very squeamish, and motherhood is notoriously a dirty job. Armed with both of these facts, however, I am still more than a little surprised to find myself in this place of complete immunity to all things gross.

I (along with most fellow parents) am completely unphased by the grossness of my constantly erupting baby. In fact, when we brought Elliot home, I was completely nostalgic about that sour cream fragrance that mingles with the baby powder scent of newborns. I suppose not all parents of newborns are quite so immune, given that half of all babies under three months have “acid reflux” (formerly known as spit-up) and pediatricians (responding to incentives from pharmaceutical companies and demands of parents) are increasingly offering Zantac and Prylosec to treat the “problem.”

I have been less than sympathetic when other adults react to Elliot’s little displays with disgust or compare her to Stan on South Park. That is, until I reminisce about the good old days when my shirts were stain free (well, unless I had coffee) and my perfume was more “wildflowers” than “dairy case.” I can hardly blame others for finding a palm full of regurgitated milk less than endearing.

As the title implies, spit up is not nearly the grossest aspect of parenting. I won’t even go into my post traumatic stress syndrome caused by a recent mommy-daughter bath and a couple of horrifying public displays of evacuation (PDE’s?). We’re in the trenches over here, making fantastic strides in potty training punctuated by seriously offensive steps backward, plus we are transitioning Elliot to solid foods (which means giving up the easy infant diapers).

You want one last gross thought…. The Special Potty, also known as the public restroom. Ugh. Every place we go, the bookstore, the library, the mall, even the zoo, Maya wants to use the Special Potty. She even refuses to pee before we go, knowing that an exciting new toilet is awaiting her.

I used to eat a bunch of salty popcorn with the hope that dehydration would keep me out of the zoo bathroom. Now I’m in there cheering as Maya clings to her perch on the edge of that nasty potty. When you’re three-feet-tall hovering just isn’t an option.

Someday my life won’t be so full of bodily functions, and I’ll regain my sense of decorum. Until then, I’ll just record as many stories and pictures as possible for use as high school blackmail!