I remember I once had this boyfriend who admitted that he didn’t like to think of me as someone who pooped.
He had some kind of number 2 complex. Like he didn’t want to imagine his girlfriend being involved in something so gross.
I got rid of him in a hurry.
Or I may have just said, “Yes, you’re right, I don’t poop” and we dated another 2 years.
It’s hard to remember the details.
I’ve (regrettably) been thinking a whole bunch about this subject lately because Summer is now potty trained and spending quite a bit of time on the toilet.
Like when she utters the phrase, “I’m pooping…” I know I need to put down my car keys and purse because it’s going to be a while before we leave the house. Once Summer is on the throne, I pretty much have enough time to build the kids a swing set in the backyard. You know, if I owned things like a hammer and some wood. And had carpentry skills.
We were recently at this seafood restaurant and she had to go. The women’s room was occupied so I took her to the men’s room, which was a single bathroom.
I don’t understand men’s bathrooms. Why do they always stink like a pack of monkeys have been living in there? The smell of urine was pungent.
Summer sits down and says, “I have to poop.”
And I know I’m so screwed.
She sang (a selection from “The Sound of Music” if you’re curious).
She discussed what she’d like for her birthday in DECEMBER.
Every so often, I’d say, “Honey? Are you done?”
“Nope,” she replied and gave me a look like a lady can’t be rushed.
After a ridiculously amount of time (and long after she had done her business), I took her off the toilet. I explained that I couldn’t spend the rest of my life in the men’s bathroom. I had goals for the future for gosh sakes.
She was furious.
By the time we got to the car, she was over it. She looked up at the night sky and asked me when we could take a rocket ship to visit the moon. Poop was forgotten.
My apologies to any monkeys who were offended by this post.