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.