One thing I have been galled to notice the amount I talk about poo. It is a big cliche how much new parents talk about #2 and their babies. It is a kind of disorder.
My friend's husband declared with dark glee over dinner the other night "so much poo, it was behind his ears!". I have actually phoned Chris from the changing table to exclaim: "A huge poo!" with such enthusiasm, you would think peace had broken out in the middle east. Or the Pixies had decided to go on a final tour. Oh wait, that actually happened.
A change in priorities, perhaps? Mental damage? Maybe not. The other night I got together with some girlfriends and I was pleased to note that we have always talked about poo, and not just since my life became about the intake and output of a 10-lb infant.
The latest story is my friend R. who found a fully intact turd at the bottom of the washing machine at the laundromat. The 1st question in her mind, after she sniffed her fingers and confirmed the identity of the substance was a) who pooed in my sheets? b) did someone plant the poo in the machine while I went out for a drink? c) Was it there from the beginning from someone else's load (get it? load?) and then d) I have to remove the turd (thrown back into the machine with disgust) or someone will think it is mine. Thank God for bounce sheets.
Poo is just such a fertile subject. Do you have a good poo story? I know you do.