Preoccpoopied

by Patti

When S was born, I was somewhat amazed by the level of poop that suddenly came into my life. Not only was I amazed by the level of poop, I was also amazed at how it didn't gross me out. Instead, I was actually fascinated by the many colors and consistencies, shapes and sizes. I was completely and totally preoccpoopied by poop.

Now? Those days are long gone. I am no longer fascinated by my kid's poop, as my kid is now 11 years old and her poop has lost its glow. I'm back to being disgusted by poop, in general, and I feel like that is 100% totally normal and expected and okay. Because let's face it: poop is disgusting. Which is why what I am about to tell you deserves a little warning. What? You say I should have warned you earlier? You say that it is too early to be discussing poop, and that poop should pretty much not ever be discussed, like, ever? Well, sorry - but if you come here, there's gonna be poop. Consider yourself warned.

Last week I was traveling for work and was waiting to board my fight in Indianapolis. First of all, I have to say: Indianoplis? You're cuter than I expected. And your airport is quite lovely. So, here I was at the airport, and I decided to hit the bathroom. The moment I entered, I was hit by a wall of poop. The smell was unbearable; it was as if somebody had taken a poop on the floor instead of in the toilet. Which made no sense because just a few hours before, I had been in that very bathroom on my way into Indy, and the bathroom was so clean and sparkly and fresh. So why the smell? That's when I saw this young girl, about 19 years old, on the floor with a baby, about 6 months old. The baby was as naked as if he had just been born right then and there, and the girl was trying to lay him on the hard, cold floor, as he wiggled furiously under her hands. She was surrounded by about 5,689 baby wipes, all used and crumpled up, and another 9,431 paper towels. I eyed her quietly as I washed my hands, and wondered why she was trying to change the baby on the floor instead of the changing table. That's when I noticed the changing table directly above her. It was COVERED in poop. It was a Picasso of poop. It was a poopsplosion of poop! It was - okay, okay, I'll stop.

It was clear there had been an accident of outstanding pooportions, and though every fiber of my being told me to RUN RUN out of the bacteria-infested bathroom, the mother's heart in me made me ask, "Do you need help?"
The girl looked up at me, her eyes wide. She was perspiring and red as she attempted to juggle her baby, the wipes, the diapers, the POOP. "My baby's got a tummy bug. I was changing him and it went everywhere. I feel so bad - it got on the changing table, all over the floor, all over...." she gestured around her desperately as her baby continued to wiggle wildly.

I immediately began to pull paper towels from the dispenser, wetting them with warm water, then handed them to her. "First, let's get your baby off the floor. Clean him with these and I'll take care of the changing table." She looked at me in disbelief, as if to say, Really? You're willing to touch my kid's POOP? Which. Yeah. I actually was.

As she wiped down her baby, I began the task of wiping down the changing table. She wasn't kidding. The kid had gone to town. That's right: he had painted the town brown. Amazingly, I didn't gag or even flinch. I simply got down to the business of doing what needed to be done. Several thousand paper towels and a bionic dosing of sanitzer later, I presented the clean table to her. "I can't believe you did this for me. THANK YOU SO MUCH!"
"I'm a mom, too," I told her, "I would hope that if I needed the help, somebody would offer it to me."

And then I washed my hands for about nine hours and left the bathroom, smiling. It really does take a village, I thought to myself. And a few thousand paper towels.

You Got Holes in Your Ears or What?

by Cathy

I was up watching television in bed the other night - my usual wind-down routine before bedtime. As I usually do, I had it tuned into Friends reruns on cable. Yes, I enjoy watching this show because for me, these television Friends were almost like my real-life friends - I laughed, loved and cried (and sometimes cried from laughter) - through all of their trials and tribulations. We grew up together in some kind of parallel universe. So for the purposes of this post, I'm going to assume that you grew up in this universe and are familiar with the cast of the show. If not, well then, carry on.

In this particular episode, Rachel's sister (Christina Applegate) takes Rachel's daughter Emma (a toddler) to get her ears pierced as a surprise, goodwill gesture. Apparently, this is what the "fun, cool aunts do," she had to explain herself. You see, Rachel didn't see this "gesture" as fun, or even cool. In fact, she lost her cool and reprimanded her sister for this obvious act of barbarianism. When Ross, the baby's father, gets wind of the little studs on his daughter's little ears, he blamed Rachel for leaving their child with someone SO irresponsible. I mean, really, you would think she brought the baby back looking like this:

Hey there, you punky princess. What's YOUR name?

My husband, who surprisingly wasn't alseep yet, and even more surprisingly, was watching Friends, turned to me and said, "What is it with people freaking out about getting a little girl's ears pierced?"

"I know, riiiiiight?! I don't understand why it's such a big deal!" I agreed, shocked that he would even care to comment on this.

"I mean, don't all girls get their ears pierced?" he pushed.

"Of course they do, otherwise they can kiss half of their fashion sense goodbye," I replied. "Who the heck wears clip-ons now? Hell, who the heck sells clip-ons?"

I pondered this some more, now intrigued at why some were so opposed to getting a toddler's ears pierced than others.
"It must be an ethnic thing," I concluded.
Joe looked at me half quizzically and half incredulously.
"Think about it," I attempted. "You're half Mexican. Mexicans pierce their baby girls' ears practically at birth. My sister and I both got ours pierced when we were very young; I don't even remember it. And I had both our girls' ears pierced before they turned a year old," I continued. "Granted, it was mainly because I heard that getting them pierced when they're really young is better since they don't remember the pain and aren't as cognizant of the studs in their ears so they don't keep touching and infecting them..."

"Maybe you're right," he shrugged as he yawned, clearly wishing he was now asleep.

"I'm serious! Think about it," I nudged.

Earrings AND a bracelet!! GASP!

Various cultures are all for having their baby girls' ears studded moreso than Americans it seems. Honestly, I can see why this may freak them out; there is something unnatural about a slobbering, burping bundle rockin' accessories. It's not really necessary, is it? I mean, it's not like they're going to don a matching choker and a pair of heels and hit the town. It makes sense to wait until they are old enough to have it look, well...natural. I get it.

I guess we culturally-diverse folks think differently. We bling out our baby girls, polish their toenails and pull a frilly 'lil bikini over their diapers (most of the time, without the bikini top) while chilling at the beach sporting over-sized sunnies. Why? Because that's just how our cultures have always rolled and how we, in turn, now roll. Holes in our baby ears or not, eventually all of us girls - black, white, brown, yellow, blue and orange - we all get there in our own time.

Baby Love, My Baby Love

by Cathy

I never thought I could love another baby like I’ve loved my two daughters; but this week, it happened.  This baby, the one that gave its mommy frequent nausea throughout the pregnancy, swelled up her feet to the size of decorative Mylar balloons, didn’t allow her to sleep in a bed but in a recliner for the last three months and put her through 22 hours of labor – that baby is the new love of my life.

This past Monday, the first child of my one and only sister was born. I became a real aunt and my daughters became real cousins – not "aunts" and "cousins" of respectable friends or acquaintances, (which are also a blessing), or once and twice removed cousins. but real honest-to-goodness-blood-related relatives. And to make things even more sugary and spicey and everything nicey?

That baby is also a little girl!

My sister’s mother-in-law had two boys and she had always, down in the maternal depths of her heart, longed for a girl. In the hospital, she was beyond the moon as she whispered to that little burrito-wrapped, pink bundle in her arms about all the dolls they’ll buy and all the cookies they will bake. My daughters? They are thrilled to have another little girl to play with and even more importantly, dress up. That baby will end up the trendiest little fashionista in the burbs. And oh the shopping that will be done!!

Even more thrilling for me, is that I now can pass down the totes upon totes of European shoes, faux fur coats, frilly hats and holiday dresses I have saved from my girls. Deep down I had hoped that my sister would have a girl, even though she always told me that she sees herself with boys. She also told me that she saw herself with four kids. Let’s give her some time on that one and check back in about two years – just as this now unscathed, perfect little human will be entering the Terrible Twos.

Seeing her now, so tiny, all unknowing and innocent, sleeping away in her little bassinet in the hospital nursery, I marveled at how awesome a task it is to take this blank slate and mold, shape and gently nudge it – physically, emotionally and mentally – into a well-rounded individual. I sometimes wish I could start all over again, now that I am seasoned as a parent, a disciplinarian, an organizer, more of an adult. It just seems so much easier when they are so small, giving credence to the old adage of Small Kids = Small Problems, Bigger Kids = Bigger Problems.

So I told my sister, even though she doesn’t see it yet because she is too wrapped up in the surrealness of it all, too focused on the post-pains of childbirth and the shock of falling into caring for another human being and just hasn’t fully grasped the lifechanging aspects of it all yet, to truly enjoy every little moment - to enjoy the nights she will stand over her crib and cry as she watches this little miracle of life sleep or revel in every little tight-fisted grip the baby takes of her finger.

My mother once told me, as she sat next to me and watched as I held my infants while they smiled and frowned and twitched their little smushy faces as they slept, that this was when God was handing them their destiny; the frowns were for the tough times, the laughs were for the good times and the twitches were for all the uncertainties in between.  

Now as I watch my sister take on the gargantuan uncertainties of motherhood, I know one thing for certain: the love she will feel for this baby, this piece of her heart that is beating outside of her body, will never be rivaled by any other love she will ever experience.