“You are my poopy pants, my only poopy pants. You make me happy ’cause you stink,” caroled my son, to the tune of “You Are My Sunshine”. I smiled at his choice of lyrics, unaware that he was pulling down his pants and blithely defecating on the floor.
He is three years old. You’d better believe he knows better. Ever since he was born, he has found human waste absolutely hilarious. When he was one and a half, I caught him sitting, butt naked, on the floor heater, giggling at the sound of his urine pinging along the metal shaft. Well, the joke was on him when he tried to stand up. His little wiener got stuck in the grating, and then it was my turn to giggle.
Zoë, his one-year-old sister, shares his obsession with poop and pee. In fact, “poo-poo” was her first word! I was changing her soiled diaper, when she began saying “poo-poo” in her little angel baby voice, giggling sweetly.
She was less cute an hour ago, while I was changing one of the nastiest diapers I have ever seen. She fought me, tooth and nail, for a chance to dig her little hands and feet into liquid fertilizer. She won. She wrested her fists and heels from my annoyed grasp and dug them into the slimy mess, cackling triumphantly. She grabbed handfuls of the stuff and smeared it into her pretty pink and green dress. I made that dress when I was pregnant with Zoë. Full of hazy, sweet daydreams of a daughter yet to be born, I hand-stitched dainty eyelet lace on the collar as a finishing touch. Somehow, a poop-smeared, triumphant little vixen did not make an appearance in my daydream.
As I dragged Zoë away from her beloved feces and plopped her in the tub, she grinned impishly up at me. It is so hard to stay mad at that little monkey. Her brother ran upstairs, begging to get in the tub, too. Once they were settled, I took out my bubble wand and began blowing soap bubbles for them. I briefly wondered if perhaps I ought to be sterner, so Zoë wouldn’t be encouraged to grovel in her own poo again, but dismissed that thought. I was too tired to think of discipline just then, and they were awfully cute. Zoë, with the water dripping from her sooty brown hair, reminded me of a merbaby, and Silas was just grinning away, as if plotting something delightfully wrong. He didn’t leave me long to wonder what he was plotting, and soon began trying to dunk his baby sister under water. She sputtered up at him as if it was the greatest joke ever. As I began yelling out the things about bath safety that moms must yell, I, too, began giggling. I thank God for my naughty, poop-obsessed little varmints, with their magical smiles and enchanting ways. I never imagined I’d love anyone so much.