We’re friends, right? I mean, I wouldn’t share this with just anyone. I have a reputation to uphold after all.
That said, aside from what some more proper women refuse to admit, I poop. All women do it. All women fart too, and it doesn’t ever smell like flowers. Some women even surprise their husbands with the occasional (gasp!) “dutch oven.” “For better or worse honey, but I plead the fifth.”
On a similar topic, I was blindsided by a bout of diarrhea the other day. This never happens to me. I am usually (i.e. delusionally) in complete control of everything in my life. Atop the list is my ability to relieve myself when I want to, not when I have to. I can hold shit in until my pupils are floating in piss and I am standing cross-legged and bouncing up and down in my kitchen like an orangutan peeling an apple. “Who wants a snack?”
I am not a man. I don’t grab the iPad and declare to the world that I will be unreachable for an hour and then disappear behind a door, only to reappear 45 minutes later with a shit eating and refreshed (“I’ve been on vacation”) grin while holding hands with the green cloud of disgust that has followed him out of the room.
Regardless, on this particular day, I had to go, now. I scurried to the nearest toilet, closed the door, held my head in my hands, and braced for the inevitable. “This was not in the plan!”
To make matters worse, less than five minutes into my misery, I hear my son, “MOMMY? MOMMY? Where’s MOMMY?”
Son of a bitch! I didn’t lock the door!
He walks in, proceeds to shut the door behind him, and then dramatically falls to his knees gasping for air, gagging repeatedly, and pulling his shirt over his head while proclaiming the obvious, “Dat tinks mommy! Uggghhhhhh (gag, gag, gag), Dat tinks!”
“Yep, it stinks Buddy. It’s poop.” My kid is a fucking genius.
I was powerless. There was nothing I could do. I wasn’t going a n y w h e r e. Daggers being spiked through my gut, sweat dripping from my brow, the toilet filling up once again, and my 3 year old son staring at me like I was some sort of monster.
“Oh, I’m sorry honey. Are you uncomfortable? Would you prefer that Mommy do a courtesy flush for you? Seriously? Get the fuck out! No one is forcing you to be in here and more specifically, you are officially uninvited! Please leave.”
He didn’t though. Just sat there in complete agony waiting for me to finish up and release him from his nonexistent chains.
The episode finally passes, I make my way into the bedroom for some fresh oxygen and a change of clothes, only to be met by my concerned daughter who apparently was very intrigued by the entire scenario.
“Mom, what kind of diarrhea do you have? The slushy kind where you fart when you poop or the kind where you feel like you have to poop, but you can’t?”
She was looking at me so intently as if she was about to solve some century old mystery.
I am defeated and can only concretely answer the question.
“The slushy kind.”
“Oh, okay Mom.” And then she walked away, completely satisfied, never looking back.
“Hey, where are you going? Mommy’s tummy still hurts. I don’t feel well. Can I get a hug or something?”