I wrote this blog post a year ago, and recently pared it down and edited it to make it suitable for a college writing assignment. Here is the new version:
Ode to Poop
“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 had pulled down his pants and was blithely defecating on the floor.
Bubsy is three years old. You’d better believe he knows better. Ever since he was born, he has found human waste fascinating.
Zee, his one-year-old sister, shares his obsession. In fact, “poo” was her first word! She dimpled adorably, cooing “poo-poo” in angelic tones.
Zee was less cute an hour ago, while I was changing an especially foul diaper. She wrested her hands from my exasperated grasp and dug them into the pungent slime. Cackling triumphantly, she smeared it over her dainty pink dress. I made that dress while I was pregnant. Full of hazy, sweet visions of a daughter yet to be born, I hand-stitched on eyelet lace. Fecal matter was far from my thoughts.
As I plopped her in the tub, she grinned up impishly. Her brother ran upstairs, begging to have a bath, too. I took out my bubble wand and began blowing soap bubbles for them. I wondered if I ought to be sterner, but dismissed that thought. I was too tired to think of discipline just then, and they were awfully cute. Zee, the water dripping from her sooty brown hair, reminded me of a mer-baby. Silas grinned roguishly, as if plotting mischief. He didn’t leave me long to wonder, and ducked his sister underwater. She sputtered up at him as if it was the greatest joke ever. I started yelling about bath safety, but ended up giggling. I love these naughty little rascals, with their magical smiles and enchanting ways.