When I was in tenth grade, my English teacher gave us an awesome research project. We had to pretend that we were writing to a classmate before our 10 year reunion. We had to research our college, career, and city. In some ways, I had envisioned such a different life for myself: I went to UVA, lived in Boston, and married a lawyer. In others, I was spot on: I was a special education teacher, I had children, and dogs. The one thing that I missed was the poop.
No one told me that most of my adult life would revolve around thinking about poop. I think about pet poop, child poop, student poop, my poop, and even husband poop. I have cleaned up so much poop, that I really could have been a farmer: diapers, pet accidents, daughter accidents, toilets...
I have listened to students loudly explain that they are "poopin" after I have foolishly asked "What are you doing in there?!" I have changed so many diapers: preschoolers, siblings, cousins, daughters, and nieces. I have analyzed poop: "too much juice?" "not enough water?" "PediaSure?" "prunes?" "stool softener?".
Then there is all of the time wondering about poop's arrival. Will it come: "before I leave for work?" "in time to take the newborn home?" "during her bath?" "right after I've changed her?" "as we head out the door?" "when I hand her over to my Gramma?" "in the middle of the store?" "in the middle of no where with no bathroom and no change of clothes?" "in the middle of the living room while she is not wearing clothes?"
Through each stage of life my thoughts and concerns about poop have changed, but at the base of it all, not a day goes by that I don't think about poop. Why didn't someone warn me in tenth grade? Well, I would never have believed them. Truly, my research paper could have been summed up in one sentence: "My life is full of crap, and I don't mind at all."
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