Poop and Perfection

I went back and forth on writing this post.

For two reasons.

One because no one talks about it. But I have received so many messages from so many of you appreciating my posts – because I tell it like it is, remain real, and share everything.

Two because of my friend. My friend who is kind, wonderful, good, loving, brilliant, strong, the picture of perfection – might be scarred forever if I do. So I will share it with her before I post and get her blessing.

Here we go. Balls to the wall.

This post, is about poop. Not dog poop. Not baby poop. But full on. Poop. The poop we don’t talk about. Before living with someone you cannot imagine what it would be like to share a bathroom. How? When?

Then you move in. And, silently, it all works out. Then the cat poop comes up. And the dog poop. And once you have a kid – forget it. 99% of the conversations are about poop.

But still – we never talk about adult poop. “I had a stomach bug” “stomach ache” “was sick” “went to the bathroom.” But besides the text chains amongst you and your girl friends. No one is talking about their bowel movements.

But I do.

I woke up Monday, the start of our staycation – “The Week of Us” and thought I was dying. Sharp pains and cramps in my insides. I was close to going to the ER because something just didn’t feel right. Wrote to my tried and true text group of not one single doctor friend. Shared the symptoms and we all decided I was not dying, just needed Gatorade – and life would go on. Sweet, because Nathan and I had “plans” for this week. And it was really fucking time we get to those plans. It had been far too long.

Ultimately, I’m not dead – alas, the advice was not sound. And my stomach was sour all day. And yes. That means poop. So much. The explosive kind. The kind that makes you think – well that’s it, there’s nothing left. But…ha ha – just kidding. There’s so much left – you’re never leaving the bathroom again. You live here now. So get comfortable.

Long story short. It lasted 24 hours. I woke up today (Tuesday) and thought. Ok. I can do this! Let’s go on a road trip. A few hours in a car. To a house that isn’t mine. It’ll be just fine.

Well. Some of that was true.

What wasn’t true:

⁃ It didn’t last 24, it lasted much longer.

⁃ I couldn’t do this. I stopped at every possible rest-stop/gas station-bathroom along the way.

⁃ A few hours in a car was a terrible idea.

⁃ I probably should have for-warned my friend – and gotten her go ahead.

Nonetheless. We did it. We got here and I was ready to take full advantage of the house.

And the 7 1/2 bathrooms.

And I did. Within the first hour. I hit four. Not because I was ‘hoping to hit them all’.

No. It’s because I had to run to whichever was the closest.

So. The main floor became my bitch. I am not proud. Not happy about it. But it happened. Out of respect (and possibly timing) I stayed far away from upstairs – the family floor.

What also happened. Was. I got scared. Very scared. You see. This house. Is. Perfect. I mean. Picture perfect. The kind you see in Home and Garden. The kind you see in Martha Stewart type magazines. (I presume. I don’t subscribe to any of this. I hear print is dead). But. My intestines were not agreeing with me. At all. And there were moments where I was screaming to Nathan “I can’t find the bathroom.” “Where’s the bathroom I was just in?” “Find me a fucking bathroom now!!” And running through the house over pristine white rugs and carpets – not sure I’d make it to the bathroom in time and going through that conversations in my head.

House rules included:

⁃ no shoes in the house.

⁃ be careful with red wine.

But understandably – There were no rules focused on this topic. How in the world do I bring this one up?

The night before we left for this over-night Nathan said – we’re obviously not going anywhere. We’re not leaving our home, going somewhere else so you can sit in the bathroom(s) there and shit yourself all day.

Well, my dear. We did. And I did. And here we are.

But.

I didn’t crap on my friends white floor. Or white bed. Or white bath mat. Or insanely expensive, marvelous white couch. Though it was touch and go there a few times.

And it was still incredible to get away. And be in a home. With a pool. And a hot tub. And more than two rooms. And no babies. Or dogs. Or cats.

But it sucks that so much poop was involved. And so much of what should have been involved wasn’t. Because based on Nathan’s understanding of anatomy. “If you put something up there. The pressure will make something come out of here.”

Guess that’s good news. One less bedroom to clean my dear friend. Thank you for giving us your home for 24 hours. You’re a better friend than you ever knew you’d be.

Please, please invite me back.

I promise not to poop on your floors.

Author: BexHasBabies

I’m a wife and mom of a four year old and a set of two-year-old twins, (in)fertility warrior, community builder, supporter, friend, connector, counselor, advocate, doula, coach, Licensed Master of Social Work based out of Manhattan. After embarking on my own path to becoming a mother, something in me shifted. My passions, my identity, my purpose all took on new meanings. I realized how lonely it can be for those without community, support, or someone in their corner to guide them. From that moment I realized I wanted to help women setting out on this chapter of their lives-- whether they are struggling with infertility (as I did), pregnancy challenges, miscarriage or infant loss, life as a new mom, or all the spaces in between. I am particularly passionate about normalizing infertility, postpartum challenges, pressures associated with social media, breastfeeding and everyday struggles balancing life with infants and toddlers. I aim to add humor and my own personal reality to these and other parenting topics with the hope that it makes women understand they are not alone. I am in the trenches with you and we’re all just doing our best. My best, your best, is good enough. Its-Conceivable.com @itsconceivablebyrebekahrosler

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