There comes a time in every parent’s life when one realizes they’ve completely lost any trace of modesty they may have ever had. For me, that happened back during my first pregnancy, when several bescrubbed individuals, peering under a sheet at the end of a stretcher, became a mundane occurrence.
I thought I had reached the pinnacle of my immodesty when I was pregnant with twins, or after I was filleted like a flounder, or when I had to have a nurse assist me with placing my newborn twins on my – well, never mind…
I thought I had hit bottom, but turns out, I’ve reached a new low. It’s talking to people just like I talk to my children and their caregivers, people who don’t expect it. People who don’t deserve it.
Did you hear me? I’ve begun talking to strangers like I talk to my kids.
Of note, I asked the furniture delivery guy who asked to use my restroom before we moved in whether he had to do “Number One or Number Two” because I had only brought enough toilet paper to cover one bathroom. I thought it was a legitimate question. Would he want to be stuck in the wrong bathroom for the job? For the rest of his visit, he laughed and shook his head, repeating, “Oh, no, she didn’t! Did you hear what she asked me? Did I have to do Number One or Number Two! Did you hear that? Oh, snap!”
If you asked me at age twenty-five if I would be caught dead asking a grown stranger if he was going to “do Number One or Number Two” in my new toilet, I would have declared you certifiably insane and left you at the entrance of the nearest hospital. And that’s after I laughed uncontrollably in your face.
Times have clearly changed.
I’ve told family members, whom, before the arrival of my cherubs, had been to my house once a year at best, that, “I need to pee really bad and go take a shower because I stink.” My aunt and uncle have folded my underwear. Several times. I’ve tried to get them more comfortable with the word ‘poop’, but I’ve as yet been unsuccessful. It’s so natural, right? Poop. Poop. Poop. See? Still, they prefer referring to that which graces my babies’ diapers as “a mess” or “a big mess”. Suit yourselves.
Most recently, the pest control guy and I were chatting it up about having three toddlers, and I launched, almost automatically, into my trademark, “Oh, no more for me! My grandmother had seven, her mother had eleven, and unh- uh (shaking my head), I’m done, if you know what I mean,” slicing my neck with my index finger. He stared at me wide-eyed, looked at my husband, back at me, and attempted a nod. Is that uncomfortable? I don’t think so. I say that at least twice a day.
I know I can chat with many a mom (and dad) about the diapers and the sleeping and the boogers and the smashing of the food in the hair and no one bats an eyelash. Whenever I enter a child-related store, I am comforted by knowing nods from my kinfolk. I can say a lot of words with a straight face. I worked in healthcare.
Life is just easier (and cleaner) when you know what you’re dealing with. I know it may be a little uncomfortable at first, but babies are disgusting little creatures, and procreation is an obvious precursor to their existence. And, honestly, after you’ve said ‘poop’ once, you’ve said it a thousand times.
You know where babies come from, right? We don’t have to have The Talk, do we? And you know what comes from babies as well, so I’m not sure why we’re giggling like a bunch of metalmouthed schoolgirls over a Kirk Cameron poster.
So, suck it up. And grab a diaper. There’s plenty of work to be done here. At least until everyone’s potty trained. And, from what I hear, probably after, too.