We need to be clear on a point, Internet, I am not particularly squeamish. Unless we’re talking vomitous. Because that will make me very, very squeamish indeed. So much so that I will have to go running into the other room)
Being a nurse, and a mother, and someone with Crohn’s disease, I am no stranger to The Dookie. I have very little issue with cleaning it off of puckered poopers, be it my own, my son’s or even a stranger’s. No huge deal to me.
(no, I will not look at the rash on your penis)
Lately my Crohn’s has been particularly awful, rendering me bathroom-bound for many hours a day. It’s part of the disease process, so I have a hard time being too upset about it. It’s just life for me.
Since I moved from living with one male to living with TWO males, I have learned that having a penis = something besides the obvious and lingering smell of urine in the bathroom. It ALSO = Skidmarks. Since I have the misfortune of doing laundry, I am constantly coming across poo-stains on the seat of 2 sets of tighty-whiteys. Once large and one small.
I’m not sure the correlation, between penis and poo-crusties, but I do know this. I shit more regularly than anyone else in the house (aside from Joey The Mean Hamster) and I fail to import that poo onto the seat of my drawers. Guess it’ll be the subject of an upcoming History’s Mysteries.
And as a parent, I have been particularly lucky in one regard. Ben has been (literally, NOT figuratively) constipated since he was born. Once the meconium passed in the hospital, he didn’t have a bowel movement for DAYS. As such, although I had to venture into the realm of suppositories, I was spared the “my baby shit in his pants and wiped it all over the wall and crib.”
Ben came out of his room after taking a nap covered in something suspiciously brown and crusty. I had fleetingly thought that maybe it was actually dirt. Now, I wouldn’t be happy that there was enough dirt in my house to make that sort of mess, but it was better than the truth. Upon closer inspection, it was worse than I had feared.
Ben had SHIT IN HIS UNDERWEAR AND PLAYED WITH IT. It was shoved under his fingernails, on his face, and in his hair. It was crushed and smashed in his underwear.
I went through the roof. I was so angry that I made Ben sit in the bathroom, after de-shitting him (I wished like mad that I’d had a radioactive suit) until he could remember where poop goes. About 30 minutes while I stewed in the other room.
Several hours later, my Crohn’s came a-knockin’ and I rushed to the bathroom to evacuate my bowels . Noting that the toilet hadn’t been flushed since Ben’s stint in the bathroom, I casually reached over to flush. My toilet, let’s be clear, Internet, isn’t always so good on the whole “flushing” thing, but this, of course, did not cross my panicked mind.
I flushed, and the water didn’t even THINK about going down. It rose into the bowl, stopping JUST before the rim. I pulled out the trusty old plunger and set myself to work. 30 minutes, and gallons of poo soup later, the water STILL wouldn’t go down. Now it was simply all over the bathroom. My white tile was now a brownish-yellow color.
It was then that I called Dave and screeched into the phone “GET HOME NOW, MOTHERFUCKER.”
I stood in the bathroom clutching my guts in agony trying to figure out why the toilet had been stopped up. Lo and behold, while Ben was being punished and I fumed in the other room, he had graciously emptied the ENTIRE roll of toilet paper into the toilet. Maybe in houses with normal plumbing, this would be no problem, but in MY house, my toilet quivers and shakes at the THOUGHT of anything larger than a pea being flushed.
I heard the weather this morning, and it didn’t say ANYTHING about a motherfucking shitstorm.