Shit Happens

I suppose I should warn you, this post is not pretty. It's dirty, messy and has a distinct odour. I'm talking about shit. Actual shit. Poop, feces, crap, scat. What ever you call it, I'm talking about it. (Think of the Google pervs coming my way, today. Careful who you bump into around here. Make sure you wash your hands when you leave...) Why am I talking about poop? Think of me as your Northern, white, skinny, poorer version of Oprah. If she can talk shit, then so can I.

Except I'm not here to discuss with you the size, shape and colour of my crap. Let's just say I'm very pleased with my poop. Yep, I'm proud of my shit.

No, today's post is about my past with shit. (Not my past shit, just my history with it.) We have all had our own experiences with the brown smelly turds that fertilize this world. I think it's time we stop ignoring this fecal matter and shine some light on it.

Obviously, as a young child, I had more than one close encounter with the brown kind. I am sure I crapped up, down and all around my folks. After all, if my children are any example, the apples never fall far from the tree right? But I'm not talking about diaper horrors, or potty training poops.

I'm remembering going to the farm and visiting my very favorite uncle. And for some reason running around bare foot like the little redneck I was bound to become. The memory of stepping into my very first (and last) pile of steaming cow shit, is still a memory I can feel right now. I was horrified when I felt the oozing warm stuff squishing between my toes and I realized just exactly what I had stepped into.

My uncle, however, laughed so hard, I'm sure he almost peed himself. And considering he was almost 70, that was a possibility in itself. I remember pulling my foot out of that patty, and feeling the suction power of the poop gripping my foot, unwilling to let go. And I remember the cold, wet spray of the water from the well as my uncle pumped and laughed and told me to wear shoes next time as he washed my foot clean of cow dung.

And the city kid got her first glimpse into farm life.

Fast forward through the years, and I was a young mother with her first babe. I remember changing those first few diapers, and wondering what all the fuss was about. Baby poop was nothing! Oh, to be young and stupid again. Until, one day at a family function, in the middle of nowhere, my daughter mocked my mommy attitude and let loose. Down to her toes and up into her hair. I ran out of wet wipes. Suddenly, the power of an infant's bowels was to be respected. Because you never knew when they were gonna loose their shit.

But then she grew and so did her brother. And diaper duty was fast fading into a blurred memory, to be replaced with fresher memories of toddler hood. Memories of sweet, innocent children learning to navigate their way through the wondrous new world that lay before them.

I loved being a mom back then. I was young, and swept away by the passion inspired by two small children exploring the world with such curiosity and enthusiasm. Every day they learned something new and through them, so did I. We grew up together. I couldn't imagine a better gig than being a mom. Nothing they did baffled or stumped me. I got them, these children of mine.

At least until the moment I walked into their bedroom only to catch my three year old daughter squatting over her brother's pillow. Dumping a load, so to speak. Horrified, I asked her what she was doing. After all, she had a fondness with the toilet, they had a nice partnership going. What the hell? My daughter's response? "Frac is a poo-head." So she thought to make it literal. I was unequipped for such logic. I was not even 25 years old and suddenly I was exhausted. Parenting and poop had sucked the life out of me. I didn't even know what an appropriate parental reaction to this crap-tacular action should be. And thus began the long, winding road of my children flummoxing me at every given twist of the road.

Thankfully, Fric has since learned to refrain from emptying her bowels where her brother lay his head. I keep a spare pillow in the linen closet ever since, in case anyone should regress. After that accident, I was ready for what ever shit flew my way. After all, as a mom, I had to wipe asses, snotty noses, occasional vomit and whatever other bodily fluid they tossed at me on a regular basis.

Poop is part of life. Yet we often don't speak of it. We teach our daughters the proper way to wipe (downwards, away from the vagina) and show our children how to wash their hands after taking a dump. We peer into the pot before flushing, to see what came out, if it was an Oprah poop or if we need to increase our bran intake.

We shit, and we get shit upon. Literally and figuratively.

So why is it, when you wake up in the morning and you step into a cold brown turd the dog left for you as a treat beside your bed, is it such a surprise?

That's right, dear Internet. I. Stepped. In. Dog. Shit. First. Thing. This. Morning.

The only thing that should be somewhat surprising about this is the fact that Nixon still lives. And that I haven't revoked his title of the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. Although, I am seriously reconsidering it.

I suppose the lesson here is: Shit happens.

And maybe, look before you leap. Invest in slippers. Don't let the dog eat peanuts.

Either way, I'm still scraping crap off my foot and wondering what the hell became of my life. And why is it I seem to attract so much of this shit.

Whether I step in it, make it, or have it land on me.

I think I hear flies buzzing....

Shit.