Mystical, Magical Moments
I'll be frank. This is an eloquent piece about poop.
I have three of what I call poop-manufacturing devices. The
youngest is a small puppy, the oldest is a three-year-old boy,
and the last is a 1 ˝ year-old cute-as-a-button-entirely-lovable-make-you-smile-at-the-simplest-things-little-human
girl. I added the adjectives to the third device, not that the
other two aren't also cute and lovable, but because I sometimes
need to be reminded that the little human girl is, in fact,
human. I doubt this because she generates completely non-human
smells that are currently escaping from the OUTSIDE garbage
can and finding their way back into my couch cushions.
The following is the drama I call MY FAMILY LIFE. Upon returning
home from work, the three output devices, having NOT output
any materials for the sake of SAVING such output for my enjoyment,
apparently decide that it's time to get to work. Of course,
the day care provider insists that the output devices never
stop working, but I find this impossible since, and I could
be wrong, theoretically these devices simply cannot put out
more than they take in. Should their input match their output
volume-wise, then they would require a daily intake roughly
the size of a small Volkswagon.
Within 15 minutes of returning home, it is soon apparent that
the small supposedly human girl has output something potent
into her diaper (hereafter referred to as THE DIAPER). Coincidentally,
a diaper is the very same container that the small boy knows
he should NOT output into, but does so anyway giving the following
explanation; "No daddy, no poop in the potty. Daddy poop in
the potty. Robbie, diaper." So, not to be outdone by the supposed
human girl, the small boy also outputs. This sends the small
puppy into an output frenzy despite having just done the very
same thing on the lawn 10 minutes earlier.
Now the stress begins. (Up to this point, it was only pain from
the odor.) Somehow, the small supposed human transforms herself
into professional wrestler about to be pinned. This transformation
is triggered when she's laid down and the lower garment is attempted
to be removed. Also, for whatever reason, this little wrestler
begins screaming bloody murder.
This causes the neighbors to call the police to report a child
abuse case.
THE PUPPY shifts into red alert upon hearing the familiar velcro
sound of THE DIAPER being taken off and waits for that brief
moment when I slide the open dirty diaper to the side just out
of reach of flailing feet while I feverishly clean the tush.
Despite my knowing this will happen, despite my eyes continually
scanning in all directions while also managing to be sensitive
to what many call DIAPER RASH (I call it INSTANT KARMA), THE
PUPPY manages to bolt into the room, grab THE DIAPER, and drag
it over the carpet just out of reach of my one free hand, the
other being NOT free since I have to hold the squirming body
high enough off the carpet so as to avoid it becoming poop smear.
Throughout this, the other small human continually throws in
expert commentary, "Oooooh, YUCK!"
As the dog chews on THE DIAPER, the wiped clean possible human
transforms into a greased pig, and the third, having somehow
found the basketball hidden away on the top shelf of the linen
closet, tosses the ball onto the greased pig's head.
It is at this point when the policeman knocks on the door.
The "greased pig" is screaming, having been smashed in the face
by the basketball. The "ball player," having been reprimanded
for causing potential brain damage, screams louder than the
small pig. The puppy, not to be outdone volume-wise, barks uncontrollably.
I smile at the police officer, who's never had children, and
try to convince him that everything is perfectly fine. The dog
also tries to appease the visitor by dragging THE DIAPER to
his feet as a peace offering.
We now have one small screaming naked child pulling on my pants
pocket. An open diaper rests between the officer's legs. Yet
more poop quite visibly smolders in the middle of the floor
right near where we all stand. The puppy won't stop barking.
And to top it off, the older boy who knows when where and how
to use the potty, has chosen NOT to do so and is now handing
me HIS diaper full of poop. He, of course, is screaming because,
in addition to the previous reprimand, runny poop is smeared
all over his behind and running down his legs.
I can feel my head expanding as the smells accumulate, the sounds
build up, and the tension increases. The policeman steps back
for fear of exploding head particles and begins to file a lengthy
report.
But then something happens, something magical, something mystical…
When I pick up my girl, she snuggles her tiny head into my neck
and shoulder then pats my back very lightly just as I do with
her when she cries. The tension releases, the smells disappear,
and my head returns to normal size. My boy stops crying as he
realizes that if he hurries he can mow over the poop with his
bubble-blowing lawnmower.
Ever receive a sincerely loving hug from a child? It's a mystical,
magical thing. How can one compare poop to this - to watching
a toddler blow bubbles in the tub? Or when they shout with glee
simply because you walk through the door in the evening? I look
forward to each poop-filled day because every once-in-a-while,
quietly placed in between the boxes of cereal emptied onto the
bed and the hands playing in the toilet, I receive yet another
mystical, magical moment. These make everything that was once
so overwhelming seem so very insignificant.
So, I may have several garbage cans full of freshly-minted poop,
and I may be on a first-name basis with both the Police Department
and Social Services, but I also have happy, healthy children
that are quick to jump into my arms each and every day. Of course,
their diapers are full, but you know, it doesn't really matter.
My children love me. And this single dad entirely loves them.
* * *
Rob Daugherty is a webmaster, author, lecturer, and devoted
father. His two children are now slightly older and have replaced
poopy diapers with an inquisitive need to explore - no matter
how dangerous, inanimate or crawling. His mother says it serves
him right, because they are just like him when he was a child!
Visit www.LetusPonder.com for more of his writing.
© 2002 Rob
Daugherty
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