This post is not for the feint of heart, it is not for those who cannot and do not find poop or the act of pooping hilarious. If you just got done eating, maybe wait a few hours before continuing on... if you're thinking of eating a Reeses peanut butter cup soon, think about passing on this post... if that chocolate fudgy bar is calling your name right now, I guarantee it won't be if you finish reading this post.
"But why?"
Because this post is about poo... and not just the cute little nuggets of gold that my 2 year old drops, but about the rancid death blobs that come sneaking out of mine.
Curious?
Then let's continue.
Coming up on Father's day, I love taking some time to reflect on who my child is and what she has done for me even though she may not know it or understand it yet. I'm proud of her accomplishments, be it as small as they are to me - I know they are monumental to her and her fervor and determination (and sometimes full on frustration) are things that make me so happy that she is my daughter.
I also like to take time to look at her and analyze her looks and personality traits that clearly come from me. It's fun to see little pieces of me in her - fun to see that what I have created (well... I guess all I did was plant the seed - check out Isabella's blog if you're actually interested in the creation part of it.).
Now that Niamonster is over the age of 2 we have started potty training - and we've found another trait that she clearly got from me.
Pooping on public potties does not and will not EVER happen.
("you're kidding, right?")
Public toilets are the devil. They swim with bacteria and viruses from every man-ass that's sat on them. Women don't understand because they "hover". They have this crazy ability to take a deuce and never touch the seat - maybe it's the low center of gravity... maybe it's the hips... maybe it's because men have turds that are the size of small children... I don't know - we just can't hover like the girls.
Even if I tried - I get stage fright. The fear of having some crazy STD transfered to my butt mounds or other nether-regions, makes me tighten up like a scared squirrel.
Finally - I hate the fact that other people are in there and are usually listening very intently on what's going on behind the locked and mysterious door number 3. Pooping is my private time - my time to reflect on life, who I am, and what I'm trying to become. Having someone invade that privacy by peeing in the urinal while I'm in there... or... god forbid, sit in the stall next to me, is akin to Voldemort sneaking his way into Harry's mind through Legilimency - only my butt doesn't have the ability to practice Occlumency.
There was one time that I was forced to make a life or death decision. You see, I have something called Celiac disease. In summary, if I eat anything with gluten (wheat, oat, barley, a few others), it destroys my small intestine. (This is different then gluten intolerance because intolerance doesn't kill, only cause rumbly tummy and discomfort... Celiac is an auto-immune disorder, intolerance is not.) If, somehow, gluten finds its way into my system, my body goes on this crazy flush cycle to get everything out in the fastest and most painful direction.
We were driving from Indiana to Wisconsin on a return trip home and the start of the trip had a few signs of "uh oh" in my tummy. I thought we would be ok, so off we went. Well - it caught up with me - and my body decided to run the colon cleanse without my permission. So I had two options - shit my pants - or find somewhere in the middle of farm country Indiana. I was a ticking timebomb and my wife (and my pants) were going to be the victims of a terrible nuclear, shit filled fallout. I had no choice... we had to stop at a Walmart that we thankfully found... and I had to... HAD TO!
So in I rush to the store's bathroom, slam open the door like Flack busts in on CSI:NY only to be punched in the eye balls OF SOMEONE ELSE'S EXCREMENT! AGH! Timebomb, timebomb, NEXT STALL!!!
Jump out of used up stall one, to the next one - TP... check - turdless bowl... check - quick quick wipe the seat off... oh god - piss on the seat - whatever... wipe if off I'll shower later - drop drawls.... and KAPBLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPTPPTPTPTPTPT. (ahhhhhhhh)
Kids? Voices? Oh shit... uh... uh... don't make a noise... I hear them walk into the first stall, and hear "EWWWWW" (hahaha... stupid kids found the turd bowl - I'd laugh if I wasn't trying to pretend that I was not there.) Then I hear the little shits walk towards my door. [Door is closed, buddy, probably means someone is in there... don't you] {rattle rattle} "What the hell - it's locked" [No shit it's locked genius - someones in here... why isn't he moving away... why isn't he trying the next stall.]
The next thing I know this little 7 year old kids head is staring at me. STARING AT ME FROM UNDER THE STALL!!! WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON!!! He smiles, laughs, and walks out of the bathroom with who I can only imaging was his brother. "Hahaha... that dude was totally pooping."
They never used the restroom - it was like satan called them up from the depths of hell just to walk into the bathroom and torture me... they were there just to stare at me pooping.
As if that wasn't bad enough - I now have to wipe. Which brings me to another point of why I hate public restrooms.
The toilet paper.
See, at home - we have quad-layered, double quilted, fuzzy comfy bears who LOVE to caress my ass clean.
Public restrooms have this:
They call it quilted - but those aren't quilts, those are devil marks solely there to remove layers of sensitive skin. And this paper doesn't wipe, it smears... so you have to use over 9000 sheets which I'm pretty sure doesn't remove the poo - it just spreads it across your crack so thin that it LOOKS like you got it all out.
After using the butt tissue engineered by the lord of hades himself, I stand up - look at the damage (pretty impressive, actually) - and I flush...
And the bowl fills... and fills... and... oh shit.
I ran. I ran like a little girl - and I didn't care that the bowl probably overflowed and decorated the floor with my artistic expression. I was done.
This is a perfect example of why I NEVER poop in public restrooms. EVER!
(and to that little kid... I hope karma pays you a visit someday)
("shank... wasn't this about your daughter")
No. Get off my back. It was about pooping. But let's bring it full circle anyway.
My daughter, bless her soul, is the same way. She HATES public restrooms. Cries and screams just like I want to when I am forced to use one. I've never made her use one yet, but my wife (who doesn't quite understand the emotional destruction that public restrooms can cause) will sometimes make her. And, if she's as much like me on this topic as I think she is, is dying a little more inside every time.
Someday Niamonster will read this and ask what the words "shit" and "ass" mean - because daddy has a potty mouth even though she doesn't know (yet). And then I'll put my arm around her as she looks at me and says, "see dad? you do get me"
Love you baby girl. Don't ever think you have to force yourself to do what daddy had to do once. I'm always there for you and will always drive you to where you should be when you make a doody - the comfort of your own home.
