Wishing for Simplicity

Sometimes I wish we lived in such a simplistic society that all I had to worry about was the color, consistency, and smell of my children’s poops.  But the harsh and obvious reality is that we do not.  I have been wanting to blog this past week but I have been in a rut. Perhaps some of the overall blahness I have been feeling can be blamed on the colds my three kids have had, or the teeth that are ever so slowly breaking through Prince Doodie Diapers’ gums, or the 2 + feet of snow we were slammed last Wednesday, or that on Saturday, January 8 there was yet  another mass shooting in our nation.  It took only eight days into a new year for another person to open fire onto a crowd of bystanders, killing innocent people,.  That’s all, eight days. 

The "Tragedy in Tucson", as it has been coined, has had quite an impact on me.  Many of the other mass shooting, or mass causality, situations (non-natural disasters) over the past decade have not had such an effect upon me.  I think, in retrospect, when learning about a mass shooting, I am  quick to become callous—maybe it’s a defense mechanism.  I know that I can become bothered so easily after innocent people lose their lives and others their livelihoods, which I would rather not think about it.  I cannot quite pinpoint why last Saturday’s shooting has consumed my thoughts for the past week and a half.  I did not have any ties to any of the individuals who lost their lives or who were injured by the alleged shooter’s bullets.  It was not that a nine year-old girl lost her life.  In our nation, children are injured and/or killed by guns on a daily basis.  It was not that I have a particular fondness for Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords.  Honestly, I had never even heard of her before last Saturday.  Drearily, I think I have been so affected by last Saturday’s shootings because what happened in Tucson was not a random event.  I believe it is a warning to us about the serious political danger involved in the rise of extremism. 

We, as a nation, need to begin dealing with the real source of the enormous social discontent that is increasing in the US because of the devastation in the lives of millions of ordinary people as a result of the crisis that is the very structure of our society.  On April 4, 1967, exactly one year before his assassination, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said: “…we as a nation must undergo a radical revolution of values. We must rapidly begin the shift from a 'thing-oriented' society to a 'person-oriented' society. When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered.”  

While President Obama and politicians of both political parties are publically calling for unity and make appeals against violence, they are still funding two horrid wars in both Iraq and Afghanistan—now the longest shooting war in American history.  We are called on to salute the “bravery” of all politicians while they slash education and child care for our children and oversee a system that offers little hope for a decent future for people or the environment. The culture of our nation is ones that is quite sick for it both creates and fosters isolation, fear, violence, and alienation.  Presumably, it was one or all of these societal ills that led Jared Loughner, the suspected gunman, down that shameful path on January 8.

I think idealists are truly pessimists by nature.  They see all the problems of the world and want to change them, for the better, of course.  I have always fallen into this dual category.  I want my children to grow up in a world that they do not have to fear their lives while going about our daily, humdrum routine.  I want to be respresented by politicians who don’t just talk a good talk, but who provide funding for jobs and education, not war and occupation.  I want my biggest daily concerns to be about my kids’ poopies.  Oh, how wonderful that would be.

Public Bathrooms

I am not one of those mothers who is completely grossed out by a public restroom.  Are they my favorite place to spend time in? Certainly not.  However, my children are those kids who peek under other people’s stalls, open the door while I am on the toilet, or find it necessary to not only touch everything in the bathroom, but also lick everything while we are in there. Yep, that’s right.  My princesses use their tongues in the same manner in which a bug uses its antenna.  Each girl has a variety of sensory issues and putting things in mouths is merely a way to achieve their desired oral motor input.  Nonetheless, it grosses me out because their tongues probe out as we walk by cars, glass doors, and things found in public bathrooms like small pools of water remaining on top of a counter.  

One of my most tender public bathroom memories occurred shortly before the birth of Prince Doodie Diapers.  My bladder is approximately the size of a humming bird’s, but during both my pregnancies, it shrunk down to the size of a lady bug’s.  I was hugely pregnant at that point in time and had to go to the bathroom approximately every 45 minutes.  While out grocery shopping with my daughters both Princess Poopie Panties and I had to go to the bathroom, so I paid for all our groceries and we all made the trek over to the restroom.  This particular bathroom only had only stall and it was occupied upon our arrival into the stench filled room.  I was hoping my daughters would not notice the disgusting odor, but because their senses of smell are so heightened (again, another sensory thing) I knew they would.  I immediately could pin point the age of the woman in the stall based upon not only her beige colored,  Velcro orthopedic shoes worn only by octogenarians, but also because of the smell of her poop. As a child, I hated using the bathroom after my grandmother pooped because the smell would make me gag beyond belief.  I vividly remember her poops smelling like stale Cool Ranch Doritos.  I know this smell may seem rather specific, but it was pretty dead-on.  I can’t look at one of those blue Dorito snack bags to this day without having a little bit of throw-up hit the back of my gagging throat.  Well, the public bathroom had that same stale smell on that day and my princesses immediately began questioning the odor.

“Mommy, why is it so stinky in here?”

“Mama, what is that smell?”

“I really have to go pee pee, Mama.”

“God, Mommy why does it smell so bad?”

“Mama I have to go pee-pee right now.”

“What is that smell?”

“Is there someone in there?”

“What is she doing?”

“Mommy, why is it so smelly?”

The woman in the stall began to grunt and groan as she is trying to work out whatever it was she was working out. Perhaps she had Mexican the night before and the aftermath hit her while out doing her grocery shopping. Either that or she was giving birth to a goat.

Their questions began hitting me like rapid fire that I did not know how to answer them other than trying to “Shush” them.  As I was being attacked by not only the horrific odor, but also their questions that I couldn’t answer without laughing out loud, I proceed to put my tent-sized maternity shirt over my mouth and nose to (1) protect myself as best I could from the smell and (2) prevent the girls from seeing me laugh.  I sing this song in my head when I don’t want to laugh out loud in inappropriate settings, such as when I hear someone fart upon bending over. It’s the theme song from The Never Ending Story, one of my favorite movies from my childhood.  It’s something I have always done since I was a kid and I still sing this song to myself when I am trying my best to keep my laughter hidden.  At that point in time I was singing the song over and over in my head with my shirt over half of my face and the tears begin rolling. “Mama, mama why are you crying?” my concerned Princess Dingleberry asks.  Princess Poopie Panties really has to pee at that point, as did I. I wanted to tell them that I was crying because terrible smells sometimes make your eyes tear, but also because sometimes when you try not to laugh you cry instead.  But I could barely get my words out.  Instead, I tried to vacate the bathroom as quickly as possible.  “We need to leave now.” “But I have to go pee-pee.” “We have to go home.” “But why, Mama?”  Princess Poopie Panties began crying as I quickly shoved them out the bathroom door because she realized was was not going to be able to relieve herself.  I was crying because I am laughing so hard inside.  My other daughter continued to loudly question as to why the bathroom is so stinky.  It was quite the ordeal.

Princess Poopie Panties cried the whole way to the car and I took my first breath in about 60 seconds once we got to the parking lot.  At that point I was laughing so uncontrollably, while tears poured down my face that I must have looked like an absolutely crazy lady.  Thank goodness I keep a spare potty in the back of our chariot so Princess Poopie Pants was able to pee before going home.  I, on the other hand, had to hold it in until we got home.

A Double Dosing of Doodie

When one is the queen, her responsibilities are countless. Similarly, when one is the mother of three young children the stories pertaining to their bodily functions are perhaps immeasurable. 

Today, after picking up my two princesses from pre-school, they played with a few friends for about 20 minutes. The kids played in our chariot (aka our Toyota Sienna), climbing over the rows of seats while my mommy friend and I chatted away. It was time for all of us to go and one of my princesses calls for my attention as I struggled to collapse her brother’s stroller in the rear.  At that point she was standing on the front passenger seat and I noticed her pants were down. “Look!” she shouts and proceeds to give me a better view of her favorite new panties she received for the holidays. Inside laid 5 turds; some tiny in size, but turds, nonetheless. “What happened?” I screamed, though I was more surprised than angry. She has not had a poopie accident in close to a year. Both my princesses have been potty trained for more than that and conquered the throne before they were 2 ½ years old.

Fortunately, I had one scrawny and crumbled up tissue in my jacket pocket, which I used to grab the turds from her princess panties. I didn’t care if I touched , I just didn’t want them to land somewhere in the car. That sure would have been pleasurable to have a couple of pebble sized turds rolling around in the minivan. Luckily, I got them all on one fell swoop of the tissue and threw them onto the grass. But, Princess Poopie Panties still stunk. I told her that she needed to change her underwear as soon as we got home, which she did, but found it necessary to ever so graciously leave them directly in front of the front door. Of course her twin sister, Princess Dingleberry (Note: Please read yesterday’s posting entitled “Dingers” to clarify her name), needed to examine the panties and began to gag from the stench of the poo-poo skidded panties. “Put those down! You don’t need to smell them.” I exclaimed. “”But there’s still poo in her panties!” “Yes, I can see that. But you don’t need to hold them so close to your face.”

I later questioned Princess Poopie Panties why she had this poopie accident: “Did you simply fart and they just came out?” No. I knew I had to go but I was busying playing in the sandbox.” “You went outside today?” I questioned her. “It was rather cold to go outside.” I would better understand this justification for her pooping her pants if she were outside on the playground and had an accident. “No, the sandbox in the classroom.” “Do you mean the sand table?” I asked. “Yes, the sand table.” “Where you just too busy playing that you forgot to go to the bathroom?” I was rather confused at this point. “No. I just didn’t want to go. I was having fun playing.” Well, that just clears it all up.

Princess Dingleberry had another gaging fit this evening when her baby brother had his first real—Ok, sort of real—poo of his short 5 month life. We started him on rice cereal a few days ago and the poor little fella has been pretty bound up since his exposure to food, if you can even classify the watery concoction as food. Up to this point, he has been exclusively breastfed, so his BMs are basically brown, odorless liquid. Well, since trying the cereal a few days ago he has had some stinky gas, but has not pooped. While dinner was cooking in the oven, it was rather clear that he was struggling with something. I kept checking his diaper because he really smelled, but still nothing. But soon a big smile came across his face and a horrible odor quickly filled the room. Sure enough, Prince Doodie Diapers successfully pushed something out. Upon examination, I realized it resembled thoroughly squashed peas. Coincidentally, smashed peas were the side dish—not the stuff from his diaper, of course, but my attempt to make homemade baby food—to his main course of rice cereal, prepared with freshly pumped breast milk.

Immediately after seeing what was in his diaper, Princess Dingleberry began to gag. And I don’t blame her. It really did stink. But, we eventually rejoiced because it was a milestone in the little guy’s life. Here’s the problem—he wears cloth diapers and since it wasn’t turd-like in consistency, like his sister’s from earlier today, I couldn’t simply fling the thing into the toilet and call it a day. And it wasn’t the liquid that it has been up to this point, which is just absorbed into the cotton liner of the diaper. No, it just sat there like stinky pea soup. After several unsuccessful attempts to shake loose whatever I could into the bowl, I just ran it under the water from the faucet and accidentally left it in the sink. It was, after all, dinner time and I was trying to get a pseudo-balanced meal on the table. Not until Princess Dingleberry got up to use the bathroom during dinner—a daily occurrence—was I reminded that there was a dirty diaper in the sink. She’ll get used to it, I suppose and hopefully her gag reflexes will diminish with time.  

Dingers

The bedtime routine is never an easy time in a household with young children. Nighttime is particularly chaotic in our already frenzied household and tonight was no exception.  There is a small bathroom located in our oddly shaped and impractical kitchen, so we always know what is going on in the loo regardless if the patron wants his/her business known or not. Since my daughters either have a verbalized monologue when alone or detailed conversation when together in the bathroom, we always know what deed is being done while retreating to the W.C. While I am frantically trying to clean up after dinner and get the girls upstairs for their baths, one of my daughters begins to scream “Poop on the floor! Poop on the floor!” So I drop the sponge into the kitchen sink and march into the bathroom and sure enough, there is a certifiable dinger on the floor. A dinger, if you are unaware of its delineation, is a dingleberry; a piece of poo that either hangs onto one’s buttocks for its dear life or falls off the cheeks and lands somewhere. Sometimes a dinger may land in your underpants, which then it is classified as a Hersey squirt. Tonight’s little dingleberry didn’t do much dingling or dangling, but instead promptly dropped to the floor. After commenting how gross that there was a dinger on the floor, I vacated the area because of the stench. How could something so small be so smelly? This may be a question that I never figure out the answer to for my entire reign as the Poopie Queen.

Feats with My Teats

If Xtreme Nursing were an Olympic sport, I very well may take home the gold. No, I don’t mean Extreme Nursing, like the kind where a mom breastfeeds her child until she’s old enough to fill out her college applications. I mean Xtreme, like wild and creative. Tonight, I tried one that I do not understand why I never thought to try before. I will certainly keep this trick up my sleeve for future use.

My 5 month does not sleep. I mean this boy is wide awake all hours of the day, unless I am lying beside him in my bed and my nipple is within a 1 inch radius of his mouth. I am not permitted to roll onto my back, scratch my butt, or do anything else that would prohibit him from having complete access to my mam And yes, I call it “The Mam” because as my husband ever so eloquently pointed out a few months back, “Those haven’t been tits in a long time. They are full-fledged mammary glands.”

 I nursed my twins until they were 2 ½ years old and finally weaned them once I was two months pregnant with my third child. I expect to nurse him for as long his sisters did. And I am Ok with this. I made this decision and I know it is by far the best thing I can do for my children. However, when one is as sleep deprived as I am, and have been for 3 ½ years now, one can often be heard cursing at her spouse under her breath after be awakened for the 6^th time that night, “Damn you! Why can’t you have tits, too?”  I know that all mothers are tired, but being a mother of multiples adds a whole other layer to the level of tiredness.  And now, adding an infant into the mix, who also does not sleep, may very well drive me even further off the edge then I already was.

I have resorted to some pretty wild feats with my teats in order to get a hungry/tired/cranky child to calm down, which has resulted in an overall numbness for the past 3 ½ years due to over-suckage. My twins were, and still are, on the same feeding schedule since birth. Hence, they thoroughly enjoy simultaneously sitting on the same toilet, cheek to cheek, while pooping. And we have two bathrooms. I supposed their twin connection has created such a close bond that they feel completely comfortable doing their business with her sister’s stinky bum pressed up to her own. When they were infants I could often be seen jumping over the front passenger’s seat into the back of the moving car to TTTT—throw them the tit. Now I may have bigger boos, but I don’t have plastic tubing or PVC piping attached to my nipples, unfortunately.  So, ultimately, I would only be able to pacify one girl at a time. Inevitably, her sister would be shrieking from the car seat on my other side. My husband would eventually pull off the road and we would each take a baby so I could feed them at the same time. I would nurse one in my lap while my husband held the “flying baby.” Who’s ever turn it may have been would be held midair to meet the level of my boob. There must be a slew of people who have been lucky enough seen me completely topless with two adorable twins hanging off of my utters. I bet truckers got a real kick seeing the Queen’s mams while driving down the highway. Individuals at rest stops certainly got an eye full while peeking into our car parked at some truck stop off the highway. Oh well.

So tonight, in the attempt to get our son to sleep in his crib I decided it would be worth the effort to hang my teats over the crib railing and into his mouth while standing on my daughters’ pink and purple butterfly step stool. And, hey, it worked. He is currently sleeping. In his crib, nonetheless. I have not had to change his crib seats since bringing him home from the hospital. No need to, he doesn’t sleep in it. Except for tonight.  So I’ll take 30 minutes of him in his crib because he is usually attached to one of my double Ds for at least an hour by the time Double Jeopardy rolls around at 7:15. Every other night, I have to balance my handsome little butterball in one arm as he nurses away and I peck the keyboard with one measly finger in the attempt to catch up on my E-mails, read about the daily political scandals or the latest celebrity gossip. Not tonight, I get to use both hands. How liberated I feel! And it’s all because of a little acrobatics and my Xtreme nursing abilities.

You May Now Meet the Queen

So, I am finally getting around to starting this thing. I have been wanting to for quite some time now, but when you are the ruler of a kingdom, spare time is not common place.

Let me begin by stating since I am, in fact, the Queen I can say what I want, when I want. Call this childish, call it foolish, but there are few things in this world that are just mine and now this is one of them. I can vent, rant, rave, kick and scream like a complete lunatic, or do whatever I feel is apropos for the moment. I am not just a monarch; I am also a mother, educator, activist, and CEO of my family. I am a strong believer that politics invade every crevice of our lives and I do not hide my beliefs. If you do not agree with me, have no fear for I will not banish you from the Land of Poops, which I rule, I will simply remind you that you do not need to read what I post.

You are probably wondering about my name, so let’s just get that one out of the way. Indeed, I am the Poopie Queen. I have three young and quite beautiful children. Two—twin daughters in fact—are potty trained. My other, is a mere babe. Well, my girls have a variety of food allergies and sensitivities. Upon beginning their elimination diets, I would constantly have to check what their, to put it bluntly, poops looked like, smelled liked, and consisted of in order to determine what foods could and could not be part of their  diets. It took some time, but things are now under control with their BMs. However, they got so used to me asking what their poops looked like once they began using the toilet by themselves that it is still an everyday occurrence that I am called in to the bathroom to examine what may be floating in the bowl. Some children like to lie on their backs, and gaze up at the clouds, pretending that the fluffy ones floating by look like an elephant or perhaps a ship. Not mine, they like to frantically call for me to come into the bathroom to see their fish-shaped poop or their cigar turd. Yep, this is just one of my many responsibilities of being the Poopie Queen. It’s not like my life was free of poop issues before I had children. I too have been a long time sufferer of stomach problems before being diagnosed with Celiac disease in September 2008. I too, have had to eliminate several common allergens from my diet, similar to my daughters.

So, now I share with you one of my many daily poopie stories. Today, my children and I were in Target when one of my daughters loudly announces she has to poop. My daughters feel the need to christen every public restroom possible with their stinkyness.  They must have been frat boys in their last lives because they thought farting was funny before they could even speak, literally. They began lifting a butt cheek at the dinner table before they were two. One of their newest shenanigans is farting in their baby brother’s face after he cracked up the first time it was done to him at 4 months of age. I was so tempted to make my daughter wait to use the bathroom until we got home, but I quickly remember by last visit to Target the busy week before Christmas when my other daughter shrieking "I just made a little poop in my panties. I farted and it just squirted out." The on-looking, sympathetic mothers could not help but laugh out loud.  I took her into the same bathroom I sent her sister into today and promptly took off her panties, which she would not let me throw away because they were, after all, the pretty purple Elmo panties. So, I grabbed a paper towel rolled up the stinky soiled panties, and threw them into my purse. It was more than 24 hours after that endeavor that I remembered I had them in my bag. So this particular bathroom that my family now has a close and personal relationship with a single bathroom, wheel chair accessible, is located directly next to the pharmacy.  Today, I was driving one of those huge shopping carts that rivals a Zamboni.  It has this extra part attached onto the front where two children can face one another. Great idea in theory, but not great for the mother who forgets to bring her referee whistle when out running errands. I quickly lost count of the myriad of fights between my twins while riding in these seats, which often results in one getting pushed overboard & I nearly tumble on top of whoever may have lost that particular fight. But, being a mother of 3, I seek out these particular wagons like a turkey vulture over road kill. I have been known to follow other mothers to their cars when I spot them lunging through the parking lot with one of those few carts.  Today, however, I was lucky enough not to have to stalk another mother for the massive wagon. Our cart was overflowing with necessary crap as I made my way towards this private bathroom. But since I had so much stuff and a sleeping baby in the top portion of the wagon, I did not want to have to unload my other two simply to bring them into a bathroom that was about to get smelly, if it wasn’t already. I simply opened the door and let my daughter do her thing. Of course, she had to narrate her duty--no pun intended.  But, to make matters worse, her twin sister did not want to be left out. Standing approximately 10 feet from the door, the girls’ conversation went something like this, “Do you need me to come in with you?” “No, but it really stinks.” “Are you sure you don’t need me in there with you? I can wipe your butt.” “No, that’s Ok, but you really should smell this one.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to come into the bathroom with you? I could come in, you know.” At this point, I didn’t even care the entire pharmacy staff was laughing at us. I am pretty used to having attention be brought upon ourselves. Our family is quite the spectacle. I think twins, in general, are. We cannot go out in public with being asked that question, “Are they twins?” Why yes, yes they are. And if you can see, they are both having a wicked tantrum while lying on top of the heavy infant car seat I am awkwardly carrying. Now get out of my way.

So, this is a glimpse of my life as the Queen. It’s a tough and malodourous job, but somebody’s got to do it.