I know they say that boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails but I’m convinced they are made of poop. Because if they aren’t creating it, they are talking about it or better yet mimicking it’s odor or sound to the best of their ability.
And we’ve got quite a bit of talent around here.
I can’t tell you how many times my little boys (and yes, even the man in my house) have called me into the bathroom to exclaim over what they’ve planted in my toilet bowl. And they don’t seem to be satisfied with, “Yep, that’s a big ‘un.” I have to pull out all my acting abilities and exclaim over its weight and size and compare it to large inanimate and exaggerated objects in order to be released from the bathroom and the object of their affection.
And over the years I’ve learned to play along and stifle my gag reflex because I’m all for family harmony and validating my guys egos in very shallow yet important ways. And I’m rather touched that they want to include me in their male bonding.
But the point that doesn’t seem to enter their brains no matter how many times I carefully reiterate it is that sometimes those manly fecal beasts need to be flushed more than once to get it all down. It doesn’t count if it clings to the bowl as its being sent to its watery grave and leaves a circular skid mark around my porcelain throne.
Isn’t it enough that I have to wax poetic over the thing? Must I scrape it off too?
And I have enough experience to know that if it’s fresh, all it takes is a second flush with a wad of toilet paper to get it all down.
I am a fount of knowledge, people.
So today as I grumbled at the evidence of yet another resistant poo, the words of one of my favorite authors popped into my head as I hovered over the bowl and defeatedly mumbled grumpy things while I scraped...
I Do Not Like Them, Sam I Am
But I doubt that’s what he was writing about.