Okay, so I’m officially that mom. I really never thought I would be. But something happened….something happened the day I realized how possessive I am. Yea, I’ll admit it. I never thought I would be so protective about having a baby. Her face, her name, her poop. Yup, that’s right. Her smelly poop. Sometimes with gross corn bits wedged in there. So, like most good things in life, it’s a process. In the beginning I loved it then I hated it right when she started eating solids because well, it’s poop. And yet, it was MY poop. A part of her that I felt responsible for and attached to.
Let me first back up to give you the full context of the story and describe my marriage a little bit. Yes, we are of Arab descent, but we’ve both grown up and lived all over. Nice mixture/combination you say? Ummm yes, and no. Sure it means that we have friends from almost every country in the world and can tell you the best coffee place in most cities, but what it also means is that we’re caught in the middle between Western and Arab. It is because of that that my husband has a profound resistance to diaper changes, milk feedings and well, any of the icky stuff to do with our baby. He really would only want to take the sweet bits if he could. But wouldn’t they all?
So, back to the poop discussion…I rarely leave my husband alone with my daughter for fear of SSP. SSP is what, according to Sod’s law always happens at the worst possible moments in the day. SSP stands for Stinky Smelly Poop…a very technical term, yes. I had agreed with hubby that I would join a casual coffee he had planned with friends, a little late – no more than 15 minutes… and left our daughter with him. I was literally in the middle of my permissible 15 minutes (which he claims was 45…and men say that women exaggerate?) when I got a frantic phone call, “SHE DID IT! SHE POOPED! WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU ALMOST HERE?” I shook my head and chuckled at the absurdity that he couldn’t be left alone for even a measly 20 minutes without calling me in panic mode.
I rushed out and cabbed it the 500 meters’ distance he was from me, which probably took longer than it would have taken if I had walked, but, in the moment, I panicked (mostly because he panicked) and rushed and was obviously not thinking straight. When I finally got there, out of breath, she was nowhere to be seen. He assured me (ironic word to be used) that a mutual friend of ours was in the bathroom with my baby. Ummm, what? He outsourced it? Logically, yes, I should have been thankful and (according to her husband), “thanking them non-stop for not keeping my daughter in her poop” but that’s not what happened. I was furious. Why couldn’t her dad who was physically there, stopped drinking his damn Americano for a second to either hold her and keep the poop fumes from drifting over to everyone, or change her himself? Absolutely ridiculous. Cue a whole scene and some nonverbal tension later (the worst kind, if you ask me), which was topped off with an awkward uncontrollable show of irrational emotions from my side. I decided to isolate the “takeaways” from this.
Several, albeit forced, thank-yous later, and a few minutes to think rationally about what had just gone down, I came to the same conclusion I started with. It is a conclusion that only moms will understand and agree with. Take a moment now because this will hit you hard. Moms have an official carte blanche and can do or say anything they want when it comes to their kids. So if I want to be the only one to change her poop then so be it, that’s what’s going to happen. I mean, I wasn’t cut open to let someone else enjoy the SSP without some clearance from me. That’s just the way it goes. Corn bits and all.