Hi! I'm Lindsay Ferrier. You might remember me from a blog called Suburban Turmoil. Well, a lot has changed since I started that blog in 2005. My kids grew up, I got a divorce, and I finally left the suburbs for the heart of Nashville, where I feel like I truly belong. I have no idea what the future will hold and you know what? I'm okay with that. Thrilled, actually. It was time for something totally different.
May 1, 2009
>It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.
I went up to the playroom to check on the little ones (the playroom, incidentally, is about six steps up from the kitchen, where I was working), and there stood Bruiser in his diaper, with a deeply mischievous look on his face.
“I think Bruiser just went poo poo, Mommy,” Punky said matter-of-factly. I walked over to check on him, but I didn’t need to even look in his diaper. He held out his fingers with the telltale evidence. And it wasn’t only on his fingers. It was smudged around his…
“Oh no!” I said. “Not again!”
“What is it, Mommy?” Punky asked. I swept Bruiser up like a potato sack and rushed for the changing table downstairs.
“He ate his poo!” I said over my shoulder. “Bruiser ate his own poo!”
In fairness, I don’t think he actually ate it, like a meal. I think he was sort of sampling it, as one might sample hummus in a grocery store. Still…
“You do not put poo poo in your mouth!” I told Bruiser as I scrubbed his hands, face, and body with wet wipes. “You do! Not! Eat! Poo!” Bruiser could not stop grinning.
“Maybe we should take him to see a doctor, Mommy,” Punky said from behind me. She had followed me down from the playroom. “Or maybe the hops-spittal. Or maybe the poo poo man.”
“The poo poo man?” I said. “That’s a great idea.” I put a new diaper on Bruiser, pulled a shirt over his head, and called Hubs.
“He did it again!” I announced when Hubs picked up. “He ate his own poo!”
“What?” Hubs asked. “He’s too old for that!”
“I know!” I said.
“Poo doesn’t even taste good!” Hubs sputtered. “It doesn’t make any sense.” I remained silent. I knew that for Hubs, the indignation had to run deep. It was, after all, his only son. His legacy. Who had eaten his own poo poo. Twice. Oh, the shame.
“What really makes this notable,” I said finally, “is that I caught him eating ants earlier!”
“Ants?!” Hubs said.
“Ants,” I responded grimly.
“Is he crazy?” Hubs asked.
“He’s a boy, Hubs,” I said. “This is what boys do.”
Or so I’ve heard.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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