Wanting to Change More than Just Diapers

I do not know what I want to be when I grow up. I mean, being the Queen certainly has its perks, but boy, is it a tough job, which is all too often thankless. There are mornings I wake up and I would gladly pass my crown off to the first person waiting in the wings. 

I really never envisioned myself being a stay-at-home-queen.  I knew I always wanted children, but I just assumed I would have the perfect job, which would provide me with the flexibility to have a healthy balance in my personal and professional lives. Yeah right, like that’s realistic.

Ironically, when I was a child, I knew the exact career path I would take as an adult.  I believed I was destined to become the best veterinarian/pop sensation/professional revolutionary/nurse/farmer/lawyer the world had ever seen. And I had no doubt in my mind that I would be successful in all my career choices. I knew I would find the time to do everything and do it all perfectly.  I would carefully create that necessary balance required to have a healthy and stable home life as I successfully blended my singing career with my 24 hour emergency animal hospital while educating and organizing the exploited coffee farmers with whom I would tend the fields in a remote village in Guatemala.  And of course all this would be done while I had a baby strapped to my back in a hand woven sling that I made, naturally.

Needless to say, none of my childhood ambitions were ever achieved.  All except for the one about the baby and these days he does not want to be worn in a sling or even carried since he is now quite mobile and exploring the world on his own terms.  Instead of standing in front of court room championing for unions and universal health care, I stand in front of the kitchen sink soaking and sanitizing sippy cups.  Rather than providing maternal and pediatric medical care to the underserved population in our nation’s inner cities, I serve raisins in pink and purple bowls to my children on a daily basis.  Perhaps my longing for “something else” has become heightened after my recent re-reading of The Feminine Mystique or because I always knew that I wanted more than to become a mom who showered 2-3 times a week, regularly sported hot pink Hanes Her Way sweatpants, and changed so many doodie diapers that she lost count after the first 1,000.  Well, guess what? I have become that mom. Yes, I am that unkempt, sleep deprived mother who has worn holes into her magenta pants, all while trying not to spill my 4th or 5th lukewarm cup of coffee.          

Not too long ago, a dear and wise woman told me that I should not spend so much time figuring out what my next move will be.  She suggested that I should not be so concerned with what I will become, but rather work on bringing my attention into the present moment.  Mindfulness lets us absorb the richness of the moment instead of going through life with half of our attention on the future—something we have little or no control over anyway—she told me.  “You are where you are supposed to be”, she gently stated.  I guess I need to practice joyfully rejoicing in who I am.  I am the Poopie Queen—for now, at least.

To All the Queen Mums

Happy Mother's Day to all you queens out there.  Us queens ought to be celebrated every day, not just once a year, for our dedication, devotion, and compassion.  But even I, the Poopie Queen, am not hailed on a daily basis and I am Ok with that.  I am learning to embrace and relish those moments that simply make me laugh.  Like today when the royal family and I packed up and went to a nearby state park to enjoy the beautiful weather, gather some tadpoles, and poop by a stream.  An outdoor outing would not be complete without one of my princesses squatting outside to relieve herself.  It doesn’t matter if we are playing in the backyard, hiking in the woods, or digging in the sand—my daughters love to pop a squat.  They will be well prepared for the many frat parties that will most likely attend once in college, assuming they take after their Queen Mum.  Princess Poopie Panties had a bit of an upset stomach today, but really, that’s not an excuse.  She would have squeezed something out regardless.  And that she did. 

As we were wading in a shallow brook she proceeds to take off her bathing suit in one foul swoop, bent over, and poop.  Just as quickly, she picked up a rock from the bank of the brook, proceeded to wipe her butt with it, and then tossed it into the water.  I was taken so off guard by her actions that all I could do was laugh.  I am trying my best to just laugh these days.  Life is too short to yell all the time, so I cracked up instead.

***

I wanted to share this Mother’s Day salutation with you.  I received it in the body of an E-mail several years back, so unfortunately I am unable to give credit to its author since I do not know it's origins.

This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up puke laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It's okay honey, Mommy's here.”

For the mothers who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing crying babies who can't be comforted.

This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes.  And all the mothers who don’t. 

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see again. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.

This is for the mothers whose priceless art collections are hanging on their refrigerator doors.

And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal bleachers at football, hockey, or soccer games instead of watching from the warmth of their cars, so that when their kids asked, “Did you see me, Mom?”  They could say, “Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world,” and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet and scream for ice cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who count to ten instead, but realize how child abuse happens.

This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to, but just couldn't find the words.

This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their children can eat.

For all the mothers who read Goodnight, Moon twice a night for a year.  And then read it again, “just one more time.”

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for every mother whose head turns automatically when a little voice calls “Mom?” in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home—or even away at college.

This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be “just fine” once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up— right away.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who cannot find the words to reach them.

For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed when their 14 year olds dye their hair green.

For all the mothers of the victims of recent school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting.  For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to be peaceful, and now pray they come home safely from a war.

What makes a good Mother anyway?  Is it patience?  Compassion?  Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?

Or is it in her heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?

The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?  The panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M. when you just want to hear their key in the door and know they are safe again in your home?

Or the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?

The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our thoughts are for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation...and mature mothers learning to let go.

For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.

For single mothers and married mothers.

For mothers with money, mothers without.

This is for you all. For all of us.

Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we can. Tell them every day that we love them.  And hope that things turn out alright.

Even a Queen Can Sing the Blues

Yes, indeed it has been some since I have sat down to chronicle the trials and tribulations of the Poopie Queen.  Believe me, my absence has not been because I am lacking material.  Not a day goes by that I do not have a poop related incident.  For instance, one day last week, I noticed something reading “Great Job!” peeking up at me from Prince Doodie Diapers doodie diaper.  Apparently, he ate one of his sisters’ stickers and it came out looking the same way it did upon ingestion. Although I am compulsive recycler and reuser, I decided it would not be the most sanitary thing to wipe it off and stick it the latest piece of art work to come home with my princesses from preschool.  Or, just the other day Princess Poopie Pants did not make it to the bathroom in time because she found it necessary to search for her newest baby doll so she could have company while she pooped.  She ended up pooping all over her dress and proceeded to smear it all over her back and arms upon taking it off.  Not only was she covered in it, literally from head to toe, there was a big wad of poop then lying on the bathroom floor.  No, I am never at a loss for material.  I have been busy dealing with post-partum depression.

There, I said it. Yes, even a queen can get the “Baby Blues.”  No one is immune to post-partum depression.  There is this unfortunate stigma placed upon someone suffering from this debilitating disorder, along with the whole array of other mental health related illnesses, in our society.  After one gives birth to her bundle of joy she is miraculously supposed to be glowing from sheer happiness, not sporting raccoon eyes from severe sleep deprivation.  She is expected to swoon over her newborn rather than complain how sore her nipples are from having this little being hang off of her boobs for hours every day.  A new mother should be elated and excited—even in the middle of the night, after being woken up for the 7^th time—not disheartened and depressed.  Well, the truth is plenty of new mothers, and even some fathers, experience symptoms of post-partum depression. 

Now don’t get me wrong, I love my children—with all my heart.  There is the terrible misconception that mothers who suffer from PPD do not love their children or are incompetent parents.  Certainly one’s PPD can be so crippling that she can become an inept mother.  This was the case with me.  The everyday routine became extremely difficult.  I would cringe when one of my princesses would hang from me in a playful manner.  I felt hopeless and enraged.  I never knew I had the capability of being such an angry person. 

I have been plagued by depression for a large portion of my life.  It was always there, but cyclical in its patterns and I would experience highs and lows.  However, it was not until the months following Prince Doodie Diapers’ birth that I became stuck in this deep, dark hole and did not have the necessary tools to help dig me out.  I lost my shit shovel.  I had access to it in the past and always managed to dig my way out.  I once was able to get my head to resurface, though I may have been covered in and stinking of depressing doo-doo.  Not this last time.  I could not climb out.  Instead it felt as if dirt was being thrown down on me while I was stuck and screaming in this frightening hole.   

I have incredibly fortunate to have some wonderful people in my life: my unbelievably dedicated and compassionate husband, who was willing to do whatever it took to help me; my loving and resilient mother; my supportive and caring fellow mommy friends, who are all beautiful queens in my eyes; and a few highly intelligent and devoted health care professionals.  Oh, and I certainly cannot forget my friends at Pfizer.  I tried so hard not to be pharmaceutically dependent, yet again.  I try to take the natural and homeopathic route whenever possible.  But, a chemical imbalance is just that, an imbalance.  My brain needs some extra help to work properly.  My family needs me to be balanced and present.  I need me to be preforming to the best of my abilities.  When one has the important job of being a queen, and is depended on and expected to live up to all the expectations placed upon a matriarchal monarch, she needs to be on her A game at all times.  She needs to be on her Zoloft.  

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.