Yesterday I wrote about God. Today I'm writing about poop. Bear with me. It's all about gratitude.
My daughter, Lauren, paid me a visit yesterday. She and the two littles ("Sunshine" and "Champ") and I went downstairs to visit with my other daughter, Sara, and her husband, Jordan, who live in the basement apartment. After lots of lively conversation about the coming holidays, speculation about whether or not the other sibling might be planning on having a baby anytime soon, here's how the conversation went.
I picked up Champ at his request (arms outstretched in a please pick me up manner.)
Me: I think Champ is poopey.
Lauren: He might be, but he's in a cloth diaper, so it might just smell like poop.
I move my nose toward his bum region then make the familiar visual inspection of said region by pulling a portion of said diaper out and away from said region. Visual and olfactory evidence confirm my suspicion.
Me: It's poop.
I look at Lauren and see the expression on her face. It's the expression of a young mom who gets very little sleep.
Me: I'd LOVE to change his diaper.
Lauren: That's a good idea. Thanks. It's great to have someone else deal with the poop now and then.
Me: (changing diaper) Wow! That's poop alright! It really stinks. (Let your imagination take you there.)
Lauren: I hate poop.
Sara: Me too.
Jordan: Me too.
Me: I LOVE poop. It means there is a healthy bowel in there doing its job! Hurray for poop!
Sara: Only a nurse would say that.
Lauren: Only Nurse Mom would say that. I'm pretty sure there are plenty of nurses who don't like poop.
Me: It's true. There are a lot of nurses who don't like poop.
Lauren: Of course, there could be a lot of nurses who aren't as mature as you are about things like that.
Me: It's probably more the whole "miracle of life thing" for me. A lot of nurses won't go there with poop.
End of conversation. Champ's bum is clean. New diaper applied. Smiles all around. Like I said:
It's all about gratitude.
My daughter, Lauren, paid me a visit yesterday. She and the two littles ("Sunshine" and "Champ") and I went downstairs to visit with my other daughter, Sara, and her husband, Jordan, who live in the basement apartment. After lots of lively conversation about the coming holidays, speculation about whether or not the other sibling might be planning on having a baby anytime soon, here's how the conversation went.
I picked up Champ at his request (arms outstretched in a please pick me up manner.)
Me: I think Champ is poopey.
Lauren: He might be, but he's in a cloth diaper, so it might just smell like poop.
I move my nose toward his bum region then make the familiar visual inspection of said region by pulling a portion of said diaper out and away from said region. Visual and olfactory evidence confirm my suspicion.
Me: It's poop.
I look at Lauren and see the expression on her face. It's the expression of a young mom who gets very little sleep.
Me: I'd LOVE to change his diaper.
Lauren: That's a good idea. Thanks. It's great to have someone else deal with the poop now and then.
Me: (changing diaper) Wow! That's poop alright! It really stinks. (Let your imagination take you there.)
Lauren: I hate poop.
Sara: Me too.
Jordan: Me too.
Me: I LOVE poop. It means there is a healthy bowel in there doing its job! Hurray for poop!
Sara: Only a nurse would say that.
Lauren: Only Nurse Mom would say that. I'm pretty sure there are plenty of nurses who don't like poop.
Me: It's true. There are a lot of nurses who don't like poop.
Lauren: Of course, there could be a lot of nurses who aren't as mature as you are about things like that.
Me: It's probably more the whole "miracle of life thing" for me. A lot of nurses won't go there with poop.
End of conversation. Champ's bum is clean. New diaper applied. Smiles all around. Like I said:
It's all about gratitude.
3 comments:
As my favorite church-bag pen says, "Poopin' is cool!" Amen, and amen!
And glory hallelujah.
My husband used to always say the same thing -- I was just glad he changed all the after workhours/ nonsleeping diapers. Those were long though miraculous years.
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