I hate poo
I can’t even tell you how many times, before having kids of my own, I would gag at the mere thought of changing a diaper. Parents would say, “Aw, you get used to it! It’s your own kid!” And puke? Let’s just say that many a university night out at a bar ended up in far more of that than was required. I react like that pie-eating scene in Stand By Me. I can handle a lot, but vomit and poop send me over the edge.
Changing my kids’ diapers is fine. I can do it. I often succeed without gagging (though most of the time it’s a task I happily pass off to the husband). But I really hate it, and after having two kids and countless disgusting diaper experiences, I can tell you that I’ll never, ever “get used to it”. No, I don’t make a big deal out of it, but come on… I can love my kids without loving their waste, can’t I? When my daughter was a newborn, she was a puker. Thankfully, what I can tell you is that breastmilk spit-up isn’t that bad. It smells a little sweet, and for that I was infinitely grateful because I was pretty much coated in the stuff for about three months straight.
But poop? No. No I cannot handle poo. I greatly dislike having a cat because I have to scoop her litter. And dogs? I really don’t like dogs and their arrogant insistence that their humans handle their crap. I refuse to accept that as a human I should stoop and pick up a dog’s waste in a pathetic little plastic bag. Ugh, just the idea of that hot mess in my hand… *gag*.
Yesterday our sitter had our son outside playing for most of the day. We’re lucky to live next to a huge park where dog owners take their pups to play, too. What I suppose many owners don’t understand is that leaving your dog’s crap on the grass means my kids get to play in it. And there’s absolutely no excuse for not realising your dog has taken that poop. It’s not even a leash-free park. I won’t go into my rant about irresponsible dog owners right now because it wouldn’t be pretty. Then again, neither is this story, but whatever.
What I didn’t know is that my son had indeed stepped in some of that dog crap while he was out. I had taken off his boots when the sitter brought him home because he had fallen asleep. So when I went to get him dressed to pick my daughter up from school, I hadn’t noticed his poopy boots. And here’s where it all goes to, well, shit.
I got him dressed and back in his wagon to walk to the school and half-way there, noticed mud on my pants. With my bare hand I brushed at it to get it off.
I used my coat-sleeve.
It still stuck.
I scrubbed at it some more and it smeared into my jeans.
And then it struck me: that’s not mud.
So half-way to my daughter’s school, I had rubbed dog shit all over my bare hands and coat sleeves. As someone who absolutely can’t deal with poo, you can imagine my reaction. I almost started to cry. I gagged. And dry-heaved. Over and over.
And I frantically searched for a puddle in which to wash myself.
By the time I picked my daughter up, I was soaking wet from washing myself in a puddle in an effort to get the dog crap off me, I was mortified because a bunch of teenagers had watched my psychotic display of puddle-bathing, and I couldn’t get home fast enough to change and disinfect myself.
So my story today has two purposes:
1. Always remember your hand sanitizer, and
2. Dog owners? If I ever catch you refusing to scoop up your own dog’s poop, I promise I’ll temporarily get over my own fear of it and scoop it up and smear it all over your door knobs and windows.
I hate poo.