If I'm not wiping bums, I'm scraping dog poo out of shoes (THE main reason for not having a dog!), I'm cleaning overspray in the toilets, I'm sweeping out bunny droppings (can anyone please explain how it is even remotely possible for so much crap to come out of such small creatures in the space of such a short time - at this rate I may invest in some compost franchise - once I have my own lawn nicely fertilized, of course!) or I'm getting the owner of the last intoxicating fart to admit to it, and learn that it would be far more polite to step away from the dinner table/ cooking area/ my bed the next time it's going to happen. I feel like I'm fighting an unending battle here. As long as there is life on planet earth, I will have poo to deal with. Guess we can include it into that whole saying of "The only thing inevitable is death, taxes and poo."
I think that half the reason for my postnatal depression 3 years ago was poo. (The other half can be equally divided between sleep deprivation, anemia and, uh, poo).
I had two babies in diapers at the same time. When the second one arrived, I made it a point to potty train my firstborn as soon as possible. Changing nappies in stereo is a depressing and soul destroying task.
The next fecal challenge I had to address was an infant who refused to crawl. She bum-shuffled everywhere. At 15 months she still hadn't assumed the position, and I was starting to get a little worried, when all of a sudden, my child stood up and walked. But during the interim, what all that bum shuffling meant for me was, a full diaper was in danger of being squeezed out in a snail trail throughout my house as my darling cherub wiggled from one room to the next. Add to that the fact that the child in question had serious tactile sensitivity issues and remained on a pretty much liquid diet until she was about 18 months, so her digestion was relatively uncomplicated and her excretions regular and, er, wet (?). Mopping down my passage twice a day with a solution of water, Domestos and Dettol became the norm. The day that child started walking I felt like a huge load had been lifted off my shoulders.
For a while things ran smoothly. Then, all of a sudden, child Number 2, now on solids and trying to do anything and everything her older sister could do, climbed onto the toilet. I admit, I was relieved. If I could get her on the loo, (skipping the whole potty step, because really, rinsing out potties is a lot like scraping dog turd from your shoes) and out of nappies, my life would be made! And that's where everything came to a thundering, earth shattering, mind splitting halt. Everything. Her pipes got blocked. Truly. That post natal depression that had been lingering on the outskirts, sort of saying its goodbyes, suddenly returned like an annoying visitor who just doesn't know when they've outstayed their welcome. Only, by now, my nasty little visitor had shed its "post-natal" title and was full blown MrD.
I had a constipated daughter, and my work was cut out for me. We stressed and squeezed and suppositoried and laxatived and massaged and fibred and tried to keep that child regular. At my wits end, I took her to a paediatric surgeon who had it all figured out. He was going to do everything imaginable to my little girl's gut. From the initial x-rays to the full blown rectal probes and oesophageal rotation (to deal with her reflux). I panicked. Surely she wasn't that ill? We didn't go back for the follow-up appointment.
For a year I sat and cried with my baby each time her tummy worked. It was so traumatic for her and so heart-breaking for me to see her go through that. I would embrace her as she sat on the loo, weeping into my shoulder. My body would be wrapped around that cistern, trying to offer her as much comfort and support as she made her painful deposit. It was hell. No wonder I was depressed!
Our saviour was a homeopath who suggested a surprise change to her diet ("Include carrots," she insisted, "Wherever you can!") and a couple of tissue salts. Suddenly her daily toilet trip became easy and a sort of calm settled over our home. Between my two offspring, I would wipe a bum here and there, but, in general, poo was not much of an issue anymore. Phew!
The seasons changed. The moon waxed and waned. Christmas, Easter, New Year's and Mardi Gras all came and went (though maybe not in that order). After some time, and countless responses to the all too familiar yell of "Mom! I'm finished!", I started wondering when it was that children are able to wipe their own derrieres. My eldest had started at a 'big' school and I was a little embarrassed to actually admit to the fact that I was still doing paper duty to my fellow-mothers. So I approached my little princess herself, while she sat on the throne.
"Tell me," I asked. "Do you go to the toilet at school?"
"Uhuh," se looked bored.
"Who wipes your bum for you at school?" I inquired.
"Me," she gave me a blank stare.
I was a little off guard. I wasn't quite expecting that. I had been hinting and suggesting for the last 6 months that she assume full responsibility for her ablutions, but had never received any acquiescence on her part.
"So why must I wipe your bum if you can do it yourself?" I asked indignantly.
"Because it's gross, mom! I don't like doing it!"
Needless to say, that was that. I promptly ticked her off my list. From then on, I would only be wiping two arses, my own and my youngest daughter's (the latter being on a limited time- frame basis).
(I am still curious to know at what age kids should be toileting completely on their own...)
And now, with the arrival of the rabbits, I have a whole new load of crap to deal with. Just the other day, in the space of 20 minutes, Holly dropped 9 pellets on me - aarrgh! Returning her to her just-cleaned cage where her sister was waiting, I was alarmed to discover that Jasmine had been pretty busy too, and had doubled her sibling's offerings. I'm apalled, really I am. Is there no discretion?
On the positive side, however, I find rabbit feces far more tolerable than the canine equivalent. Yip! Still not ready for a dog...
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