The Kindness Of Strangers

I am far from perfect.

There is a lot I do, that I wish I didn’t.

A lot I don’t do, that I wish I did.

But today, even with all my shortcomings I received a gift of kindness from someone I’ve never met.

It started with one person and has quickly snowballed into something much bigger. And so incredibly meaningful. My heart is simply bursting with gratitude.

In the day to day grind it’s quite simple to overlook the impact we can have on others. The smallest gesture. Intention. Can end up meaning the world to someone.

I am not suggesting we should do things with the hope or expectation that it will come back around. I’m also not suggesting that all efforts or actions will be appreciated or valued.

I am however saying, sometimes, when you least expect it, good things happen.

These days we see so much evil. So much hate – that its often difficult to see beyond. It’s easy to think the world is bad.

People are bad.

Today I was reminded that this is not true. I was reminded that at our core, so many of us are good. And kind. And thoughtful. And generous. And well intentioned. Sometimes we just need to be reminded. Or asked. And without fail we will rise to the occasion.

This holiday season I am now, because of this reminder from a stranger, committing to acts of kindness, big or small, every day through the end of this year. A conscious, active gesture that will hopefully impact someone, who will in turn pay it forward. This is something I, we, should commit to daily, year round. It can only make this world better. But for now. With one month left in 2018, I commit to daily acts of kindness.

Start small. You just never know what your effort will turn into.

To this kind, wonderful woman who has impressed upon me the importance of giving back and accepting kindness from strangers, thank you.

To everyone else, wont you join me?

The In-Between

Once a parent becomes a parent, vacations are no longer vacations. So you have to decide. Is this really something you want to take on.

You go back and forth with your partner on the merits of this idea being a good or terrible one. 

Then you decide. 

The choice has been made. 

You hold your breath. 

Press the “purchase tickets” button. 

And immediately question the decision. 

But the deed is done. You now have a few months to manage the anxiety of how the fuck to travel with a set of one-year-old twins and a toddler. 

Then the week before, it sets in. The logistics are overwhelming. How many babies? Strollers? Car seats? Who is watching the dog? The cat? High chairs? What do we do with our car? How many bags? Toys? What do you need for the plane? How do you get to the plane? What do you do once you’re on the plane? Off the plane? Cribs for everyone? What books do you pack? 

Ha! 

Books?

None for me. As we said, a vacation is no longer a vacation. 

But we made the commitment to visit family in the south. The deal was sealed. So off we go. 

What we know now is the right number of adults (for traveling with three under three) is four.

Four high-functioning adults makes it just manageable. 

For anyone who has done it with fewer, you are my heroes. 

The thing you forget, or are less aware of, in the day-to-day grind is that (for many of us) other people are entertaining our children all day. Sure, we see them in the morning. Get them dressed and ready for the day. Pick them up at the end. And manage the nighttime routine. But in between, someone else is reading, feeding, playing with them. 

And to those people I salute you. 

We had one full week in Florida in a two-room Airbnb with virtually no plans. This could have gone one of two ways. 

The twins are down to one nap daily. And the almost three-year-old is fully refusing any nap while in vacation mode. 

This makes for a very, very long seven days. 

All that said, the trip could not have been more perfect. Everyone was (basically) on their best behavior. Everyone (basically) slept at night. And, in fact an extra hour plus in the morning. The Rosler kids apparently love vacation. There was pool. There was beach. There was family. And friends. But Nathan and I were ON every. single. second. of. every. single. day. 

Well, almost. 

There were two opportunities for “me” time. There were two days of glorious moments that were all mine. And I’ll be hard-pressed to forget them anytime soon. 

One day we went to the beach. A trip to the beach is not what it once was, certainly. After lugging the baby chairs. And the umbrella. And the towels. And the toys. And the shovels. And the buckets. And the beach chairs. And slathering up babies with SPF. And hats. And anti-UV bathing suits. And water bottles. Snacks. And diapers. And swim diapers and….yeah. And so-much-crap. Now what? Ok. We’re settled. Towels laid out. Babies on them. Shoes kicked off. What now? Go for a walk?Build a sand castle? Oh, it’s high tide? Right now? Cool. Move everything back five feet. Good? Set? Now? Nope. Not far enough. Pick it all up and do it again. Ok. Time to relax? One sippy cup ends up on the sand. One baby just took a fistful to the mouth. Excellent start. 

Finally everyone is good. I check my surroundings. All babies accounted for. I do not make a peep, take a breath. I slowly walk towards the water. My childhood. My respite. My calm. The beach should be my home. It’s where I am in my element. I was pulled towards my beacon and did not look back. My toes touched the perfectly crystal blue, aqua waves and then I dove in fully. I flipped over and floated. I was buoyant. And free. Body light as a feather. Floating in a little slice of heaven on earth. My ears right beneath the idyllic ocean water’s surface. Every time a wave swept through, the sound of sand and shells rolling with them sung in my ears. If shimmering made a sound, this would have been it. This moment was perfection. I have not had a moment like this, likely since our honeymoon four years ago. And yes, it was a moment. I was beckoned back not long after I took in the sky, and the clouds, and the salt water. I followed the waves back to shore. They carried me, effortlessly. I took a deep breath and returned to my other element: my beautiful family, awaiting me on the other side. But that in-between moment brought me life. Sometimes it really is just the little things. 

The next day (in between visitors, and feedings, and cleaning, and bathing, and shopping, and playing) I was granted close to an hour of alone time, which may as well have been an eternity. The babies napped. H took a car ride with N and I had the pool to myself. I floated. I took in the fresh air. The sun. The Florida heat. And for that hour nothing mattered. There were no worries. No anxiety. No tantrums. No bills. No questions. I took a break from it all and let the water carry me. 

This came to an end. 

As all things must. 

But those moments will stay with me for a long time. They rejuvenated me. Restored me. I love my family. And my new career. And the hustle and bustle of it all. But the calm. And the quiet. And the weather. And the “vacation.” And the family time. And the down time. And the break from reality. It was reinvigorating.

Restorative. 

Taking the time is so important. Most of us likely don’t do it enough. But this little vacation home in Florida, off the beaten path, was so perfect. We are so busy running, usually, from this place and that. We don’t take the time to appreciate the in-between. I’m so grateful I was given this opportunity. It made me realize I need to focus more on what happens in-between: the things that happen in the midst of us handling life. 

It also made me realize how insanely amazing it is to have a washer and dryer in your home. 

I single-handedly destroyed the environment last week. 

Sorry, Earth. 

Please, this one time. 

Forgive me. 

There Is No One Luckier Than You

I felt like I was drowning.

At one point last night—possibly for the first time ever—I took a deep breath and thought:

I am drowning.

I just took something *else* on, without thinking it through, because I thought it could help my family. As soon as I did, I felt a weight on my chest. A heavy, heavy weight.

My to-do list already spans 7 1/2 columns, and every day, I just move the long list from one day to the next in my calendar, though it feels like hundreds of items get crossed off daily. There are just are not enough moments in a day to do it all (though somehow, someway we are expected to.)

There are second notice bills that I haven’t paid, last month’s daycare tuition I’ve not fully been able to take care of, and piles and piles of laundry stacked up from two weeks ago.

The intention is there.

The time and money are not.

I woke up today feeling less overwhelmed but acutely aware of all the things that still needed to happen. And I don’t know about your brain, but when mine is left to its own devices… For. Get. It.

After wrangling three fussy kids to drop-off, my appointment with my doula client would start the day before the day even began. I still had posts to edit and monitor in ten different Facebook groups, and many messages to return. I needed to print something timely, but inevitably I was out of ink. And when I did print it, it came out crooked. I had boxes to slap shipping labels on. Groceries to order. An Air BnB to finalize.  At some point I’d need to do research on new ADHD meds to see which ones my new shitty insurance will cover. I need to go back on meds so I can focus and stay organized… shit, I almost forgot… my appointment with the therapist is tomorrow (ironic but true.)

But first I have to stop breastfeeding, so I can go on said meds. But how do you finally, truly, forever, actually stop? At least there’s reliable ole cow’s milk, right?  

Nope. Not anymore. Apparently our next generation of girls will have their periods at age 7, because hormones, or homogenized, or pasteurized or ultra-pasteurized—or this article, or that study says—or who the fuck knows.

GAHHHHHH

And I have books to read, and meetings to be on, trainings to finish, and schedule, and calls to make, and calls to return, and things to pick up, and documents to send, and things to drop off. Clothes to buy, and to sell, and to donate, and appointments to make, and cancel, and to remember—and oh shit I forgot the kids’ cheese.

Again.

And none of this even touches on my new business that I’m trying to build from the ground up, with (currently) no investors, and no income. A partnership meeting for this business will be my actual first meeting of the work day, after all of the above.

But oh my god.

Just breathe.

I’m sure we’ve all felt like this (so fucking scattered) at one point or another.

And damn, it’s scary. When you’re a family of five, living in New York City, sending three kids to daycare, living on one salary—a not-for-profit salary, at that— and feeding not only said family of five humans, but also a cat with stage three kidney disease who definitely eats better than the rest of us, and a dog.

A crazy, crazy dog.

These last few days happened to be very productive and fruitful, which felt good, but again, the list is just so, so long. I decided a top priority for today would be preparing dinner for my kids before they returned home, since this literally never ever happens. I had grand plans; until I opened the refrigerator. Clearly the grocery shopping hadn’t happened. They ended up with chicken nuggets, sweet potato fries, and spinach bites—all from the freezer.

But alas, I’m calling it a win.

Now it’s go time: end of day round-up/pick-up.

I get downstairs with the dog, and it’s raining. And this dog. does. not. like. rain. But obviously I was already late. So off we go.

I didn’t have an umbrella.

Or a stroller, for that matter.  

Due to an earlier “incident” at daycare—involving our doublewide stroller, leading to some f-bombs, and two back-to-back blow-up fights with the admin staff—I had determined: Today there would be no stroller.

Bad choice.

Only I would lose in this scenario.

I get to school, and I am very, very wet. I presume the rain will stop, or at least let up, before I leave with everyone, so at least the kids won’t get soaked.

Yeah, right.

By now, of course, it’s pouring.  I have one baby strapped on my back, the other baby on the front, and the toddler was thrown in a rickety, 3X-hand-me-down, broken tricycle with a push handle that doesn’t turn. I grab my soaking wet and VERY unhappy dog, and we head home.

No stroller.  

No snacks.

No umbrella.  

Both babies are crying, and hungry, and so tired because said admin staff stopped me to talk about “the stroller incident.”

And it was late.

As I crossed the street, I passed a security guard.

Our eyes met.

He was smiling at me with kind eyes. And I smiled back. As I was about to walk by, he said:

“Is there anyone luckier than you?”

And I stopped.

In the rain, with three wailing children, and my crazed mind, and a laundry list of things to do, and my goddamn dog who was obviously trying to eat a street-chicken bone.

“Three beautiful children. Is there anyone luckier?” he said again.

I replied, after a deep, deep breath.

“No, no there isn’t. Thank you for the reminder.”

I could go on to talk about the fight my husband and I got into immediately following this moment, or the fact that, instead of writing this right now, I should be working on the project I took on late last night. Or tackling any number of the 47,283 tasks remaining on the to-do list. Or hey, maybe go to sleep?

But that isn’t the moral here.

The moral of the story is: Appreciate what you have. Live your life. Chase your dream. Stay as focused as you can. But be kind to yourself. Give yourself a break. Realize it truly will always work out… somehow.

There will be ups.

There will be downs.

You will get soaked.

And see the light.

There will be moments of clarity.

And of drowning.

But somewhere along the way, you will be reminded – there is no one luckier than you.

Don’t Let Go

We’ve all been there. It’s close to 8pm. And you’re (still, one hour later) laying on your kids’ floor, holding their hand, singing them wheels on the bus for the trillionth time. 

Your delivery of hot food arrived promptly at 7pm, for the first time ever. And you’ve only eaten a salad – and a donut and a half – all day. 

All you want is for your kid to go the fuck to sleep. You think the moment has finally come! Their breath is a little heavier, their tiny hand a little limper. So you ever so delicately extract yourself – both from the light grasp – and their room, by army crawling out. You get to the door and slowly push it open only to inevitably hear mommmmmmy don’t go.Stay for just a couple of minutes. Rub my back for two more minutes. And hold my hand. And lay on the floor. And tuck me in. And I need one sip of milk. And I need to go to the potty. And I do want my baby dolls in bed (after they were both WWF style chucked from the bed not 4 minutes prior).

And you’re tired. And you’re hungry. And you haven’t sat down for one second all day. And you think about all the work you still have to do before the night is over. And you’re already contemplating the importance of brushing your teeth. But what can you do? So you take a deep breath, roll over and start all over again. 

And then finally – god knows how many minutes passed this time because you can’t even look at your phone for fear of even the night time dim light being exposed through the crib slats- they fall asleep. And their little face is turned towards you. And their sweet little heart shaped lips are pursed ever so slightly. Their breath smells of post-teeth-brushed milk. And you’re holding that little hand. And remembering the moment before when all you wanted was for them to let go, let you go. And you’re not hungry. And you’re not tired. And you can’t believe the night, their night, has ended. They succumbed to it. But you’re not ready to. 

And all you can think, while you remain on their floor still holding their hand – which feels like nothing less than a direct extension of their heart – though they’ve let go long ago is: don’t let go, don’t ever let go. 

About Last Night

Last night was magical. The most beautiful thing happened. It was incredible, in a mind boggling way. It was stunningly life changing.

Oh wait. No, that was last year.

Last night was fucking awful.

I had only recently been thinking how smoothly things had been going as of late.

First mistake.

I was in a groove. Babies were too. Nathan and I hadn’t been bickering over apartment cleanliness. I had been cooking for the babies. We had been eating meals. I had some exciting meetings and events for MomMeetUps.com.

All in all I had been feeling really good.

But as we know, all good things must come to an end.

That happened on Tuesday.

I was pumped about my week ahead. Meeting some new expectant moms. Excited for our first working moms lunch. Then on Tuesday I get the dreaded call from daycare. Kid has a 102 temp. You must pick him up. Of course I felt badly for him. But also – I had so much work to do this week. And – shit – they were just sick for the ENTIRE MONTH OF JULY.

Alas, I went and did what any good mother would do. I rushed to pick him up. After finishing my leftover enchiladas and perhaps finishing an episode of Bachelor in Paradise while rattling off just a few outstanding emails.

The week went as one would expect. Motrin. Tylenol. Motrin. Tylenol. Then two days later the fever spiked. So I did what any good mother would do…three days into their kid having a fever over 102…called the Doc.

Turns out he has an ear infection. Which is of course treatable. But he was miserable. And it was breaking my heart.

This would all have been manageable except my twenty year old cat – during this exact time frame – became entirely incontinent and, apparently, started using our rugs as his litter box. So in the course of three days. One wood floor and three rugs were destroyed. Hours were spent on the floor trying to salvage them all. Hours well spent, I must say.

But I digress. JB was pretty hysterical after his diagnosis. Hadn’t given him his Motrin because I had thought he was on the mend. So I clearly needed to get meds. And some pain killers in him. So I did what any good mother would do. I stopped to vote on the way home.

Then I got home and was in a rush, inevitably. Had two other kids to pick up. But first my phone was dead and I needed to order his meds before I left. But the order hadn’t come through. So with an hysterical baby, dog who hadn’t been out all day (because who would ever walk a dog while the baby was asleep upstairs) I was juggling calling the drug delivery company and finding the goddamn syringe – that of course we only had one of, since that very morning – the other one broke – and was currently missing – and I had to administer the Motrin.

It was nowhere. So I grabbed a cup and attempted to force him to drink it.

Bad choice.

First he choked. Then he threw up all over himself. And the stroller. And me. The floor. And everywhere. But I still had to go get everyone else, thirty minutes ago. Of course, as I’m naked and dripping – and stepping – in vomit – the phone – that’s plugged into the wall because I can’t bring it with me since it was dead – rings before I leave. The drug company is glad they got me before I left. They don’t have the meds the doc prescribed. But it’s the only med he can take because this 364 day old baby has already been pumped with so many antibiotics – this was the only one he could be prescribed. But actually – wait – they do have it. False alarm. Cool. And they will happily order it for a delivery after 6pm. Which of course is after bedtime.

Fuck. Whatever – I need to rush to get everyone else.

Finally got all the kids. Past bedtime. I’m wearing JB. Pushing M. Holding H’s scooter while she refuses to scoot and demands to hold my hand. And walking the dog. While I’m holding a cupcake.

So OBVIOUSLY H tells me she has to poop, way before we’re close to home. So somehow I get her to green grass in time. Tie up the dog so she doesn’t get the stupid cupcake. Make sure the stroller doesn’t roll away with twin a in it. I pull her pants down – hold her in the squat position, and notice that apparently the ground is not flat and the scooter is rolling towards the goddamn road. So I have to make a gametime decision. Keep holding the kid or run to get the scooter. I won’t share which direction I chose. Needless to say H did in fact not need to poop. The dog did not get the chocolate cupcake. And most importantly – the scooter did not get run over by a car.

From there bedtime was relatively uneventful. Everyone went down. Got meds in the boy while he was sleeping. And thought – ok, maybe will actually sleep tonight. As this week had been a series of 4am or 4:30 wake ups – I was hopeful tonight would treat us well.

Then I remembered I hadn’t been able to work all week – and really needed to GSD (get shit done). So I set out to work. Three hours later I called it a night hoping I’d actually get to fall asleep. Shut my computer and laid down.

Haha! Joke’s on me.

Apparently the apartment above us thinks that 11:30pm is the most opportune time to either move their entire apartment around. Or drop bowling balls on their floor. Either way. I cannot fathom why a drill needed to be involved. After calling security twice. It did not stop.

But I fell asleep. Only to wake up to “Mommy I have to pee!” So of course. Off I go. She pees. Only cries for 3 minutes before going back to sleep in her own bed…I climb back into bed yet again, hopeful.

Ha!

“Mommy Mommy Mommmyyyyyyyyyyyyy”. Screeching and screaming. I don’t want her to wake the sick kid. Or the other one. So I get her. Knowing full well this is a downward spiral. But at least I will be able to sleep a little. So I lay her next to me…

…Hahah-waaaaa.

Foot in the face. Elbow the rib. But mainly I was used as a bed while 23 pounds of toddler laid on top of me until….screaming and crying from the baby room again. So this time I get the sick one. Meanwhile I have zero idea what time it is because my 4027 year old cat decided to knock every item off my night table, one by one – at the one point in the night I was actually sleeping.

So now I have the boy in bed. My side of the bed at one point literally had the cat on my feet, dog in the crook of my knees, boy on a boob and feet of a toddler in my face.

This morning I had had grand plans. We are having a family day. I will keep all the kids home. And cook our big kid one year olds a birthday feast. Eggs. Sausage. Sliced fruit. Yogurt. Pancakes.

But man plans. God laughs. They ate a stale bagel with some peanut butter.

Somehow 17 hours of labor feels like a vacation right about now.

Happy 1st Birthday Kiddos. The days are long but the years are short. We love you with every ounce of our being. But for the love of god, just let us sleep.

356 Days

I know I’m meant to feel a sense of relief that my pumping journey is coming to an end. The hours attached to a machine. The time stolen, away from my partner, my babies, my life. But I have a pit in my stomach and knot in my throat as I pack this all up. This time it’s not going on a top shelf only to be taken down again at a later date. This time it will be escorted out of my home, and will not return.

I think for me it represents something so much greater. Something I never tapped into until it was thrust upon me. It represents motherhood.

And the journey.

And the inner earth shattering, crack you open from the inside, life altering, identity shaping affect it had on me.

My life’s motto was – I don’t want kids. And now, here I am, desperate that the vasectomy didn’t take. Desperate to rewind time. Desperate to at least freeze it all.

After a year with twins I’ve often heard – “thank god that part’s over.” But I feel so very much the opposite. If I could return to 356 days ago, I actually would. Learn it all again. See it all again. Relive it all again. Do it all again.

I know my babies haven’t “needed” this pumped milk for a while. But it wasn’t for my babies that I was doing it. I was holding on to something. Something I wasn’t ready to let go of. And I’m still not. But the time has come. They turn one next week. They’re real people now. They don’t need me in the way they once did. Sure, one can argue that they need me more – or differently – now. But. It’s just. Not the same.

I’m sad. And heartbroken. And I want to do it all again. But that’s just not how life works. We cannot stop time. Relive moments.

So tonight, I will not put this pump, these bags, these tubes, back on the shelf. I will put them by the front door. And they will be shepherded out. Along with the infant clothing. And the tiny hats. And little booties. The large bouncer. Bath seats. The bottles. These are things we no longer need. And will never need again. The time has come for me to let them go, though it’s hard to catch my breath as I write this – believing, accepting it’s all so real. And final.

Many a friend has said – I can’t wait to burn my pump. But my pump feels like an arm, a limb, an extension of me. And burns are tragically and devastatingly painful.

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.