A Post on Poop

This is not a fact I’d care to publish—because it seems disgusting and lest I get saddled with the chore—but I enjoy changing her diapers. It’s something mundane I can do for her. There’s something satisfying in wiping her clean so she doesn’t have to wallow in her poop. She loves airing herself out afterwards, waving her chubby legs and chewing on her toes.

And there’s something relieving in seeing the poop, too. The first time she went a few days without pooping I was seized with worry—pooping means she’s healthy, is physical evidence that the combination of milks and solids we shove in her mouth go to some use. It’s gritty proof of the magic that transforms mushed bananas into longer limbs and dimpled elbows.

And to think before she was born we actually thought changing diapers would be one of the worst things about having a baby. Ha. It ranks way below Never Sleeping In Again, Loss of Spontaneous Date Nights, Getting Mastitis. It ranks somewhat below Getting Strand of Hair Pulled Out (her newest hobby), Not Getting to Read My Novel Uninterrupted.

I wonder if wiping poop for someone else’s baby would be remotely enjoyable. Probably not, in the same way it isn’t satisfying to cut someone else’s nails or pick out someone else’s boogers. Strange I like doing those things for her. Before this, poop was something in a bedpan I was glad I didn’t have to empty, a reason I avoided general surgery and rectal exams. And now, it’s something I laugh with her about. This has to be one of the most unexpected things about being a mother.