Hello I'am Meggan Welcome to my website.
I have the stomach flu.
It sucks. We are also right in the middle of a move to another house. My timing, as always, is impeccable.
Get married…get the flu.
Plan a trip to Paris…plan on going to the ER, my ear drum painfully bursts.
Moving to a house…moving to the toilet.
I should of known trouble was a comin’ when I pooped my pants. Pooping my own pants was someting I had not done for, I don’t know, 34 years. We have been so busy though preparing for the move that pooping my own pants barely registered on the radar. I didn’t have time to worry about it. I just thought to myself, “huh, that’s weird. I just pooped my own pants.”
I then told Ettore I pooped my pants. Again the only response was, “huh, did you clean it up?”
Normally, in my pre-three boys days, pooping my own pants would of been cause for alarm that big trouble was just around the bend and that something wicked this way comes, but these days I simply don’t have time to think about it. I cleaned myself up including using some of Lucas’ baby wipes, scooped up the baby and we headed out the door to an appointment at the new house. I did however bring my own roll of toilet paper, as the new house is vacant. Could you imagine if I got sick during the walk through? I shudder at that uncomfortable conversation.
“Hey, good news. The toilet works. Does anyone have a box of tissues?”
I think as a busy Mom you just keep going, like the mailman. Not sleet, nor snow, nor rain, nor a drippy ass, will keep you from running the household. Except I did get stopped. Right in my tracks. By 9:00 p.m. I was in the fetal position begging for mercy. What caused this? Was it the margarita machine at my friend’s bbq the night before? I only had one. Did I over indulge in the bean dip? I don’t think so, I was on my best buffet behavior. I don’t know where I picked this up from, but all my participating in the move has stopped and I feel terrible. Lucas has been shuttled off to Grandma’s for safe keeping and I am holed up in the bathroom. Every time I think I am better, one sip of Gatorade or water sends my right back to the restroom. It is so bad that Lucas is now not the only person in the house in diapers. I sent Ettore to the store for an emergency pack of Depends.
Reilly was very concerned for me when he came over last night, concerned but also intrigued.
“Do you poop when you laugh?”
“Do you poop when you cough?”
“Do you have to poop right now?”
“If I made you laugh, would you poop?”
Which then transitioned into talk of other bodily functions as our conversation often does.
“Have you ever laughed and farted at the same time?”
“Have you ever coughed and farted at the same time?”
“Have you ever pooped and threw up at the same time?”
“Have you ever sneezed, threw up, and pooped at the same time?”
I was starting to laugh and I had to shut down the bodily function discussion rather quickly or we were going to have a hands on lesson. We decided to resume the conversation at a more appropriate time, like dinner when we have company. That’s when these topics usually surface.
So here I sit, in Depends, as the world turns without me. No coffee, no food, no problem. Coffee, food, BIG problem.
Hey, at least I lost five pounds.
Who knew when I started this website that so much of it would revolve around poop. I should say I am shocked, but I am not. I have been living with all boys now for several years and shock over bodily function went by the way side after our first bean burrito together. Boys (and men) love poops and farts. They love to poop. They love to fart. They love to reminisce about past poops and dream about future poops to come. They take pictures of poops, announce pending poops (often by farting) and even have colorful sayings for pooping such as, “sending logs downriver” or the classic…”dropping the kids off at school.”
When my boys read the entry about my stomach flu they were delighted beyond belief at the thought of me pooping on the rug. What I am sure were deep concerns for my health just temporarily brushed aside, the boys feverishly asked, “You pooped on the rug? NO WAY, THAT’S AWESOME….CAN WE SEE IT?” Sigh, I had to disappoint their admiring and adoring faces and and tell them it was long ago cleaned up.
I decided I should write a book, How To Bond With Your Sons and Stepsons…One Poop At A Time.
Chapter One – Poop Anywhere But The Toilet And Live To Tell About It
Chapter Two – Earn Their Respect…Photographic Evidence Of Poop A Must
Chapter Three – Break The Ice With A Good Fart
Chapter Four – Fart Jokes, The Key To Your Boys Heart
Chapter Five – The Art of Blaming It On the Dog
You might not believe me, but I am telling you it works. My stepsons and I are thick as theives and it wasn’t because I sat on my high horse, or should I say porcelain throne. So if you are having trouble with your sons or stepsons I seriously urge you to take my advice. Grab a hefty burrito, close up the doors and windows and have yourself a good fart right next to your son, he’ll laugh his ass of while you poop yours.
Nothing says Happy Valentine’s Day like throwing up and then pooping on the rug. Unfortunately for me (and my husband) that is exactly how our Valentine’s Day went down.
I am sick.
Really really sick.
I have a TERRIBLE case of the stomach flu. My poor sweet husband. Valentine’s Day is ALSO his birthday and it is ALSO one of the busiest days at his bakery. It is always a bit of a challenge to try and make such a busy work time for him romantic and special for his birthday and Valentine’s Day, but I try. I am sure the farthest thing from his mind was seeing me limp (thank you still healing knee from surgery) at warp speed toward the toilet yelling, “OH NO” “OH NO” “OH MY GOD!!” while I threw up and then pooped myself. I had planned to be wearing my new Victoria’s Secret nightie, not my own bodily fluids.
It has been awful, but I have to say my husband has been wonderful. Getting me 7-up, taking care of the baby, all while keeping his business going. I am so thankful that he is so terrific, because I felt so horrible. I kept apologizing. We even had to cancel birthday dinner plans with good friends. The last thing I wanted to see coming at me was a scallop or filet. UGH! A saltine looked like heaven on a plate, and even then I was cautious. So I am recovering. Today I feel a little better and have washed every single thing we own and cleaned every surface. I am still quesy and haven’t graduated from Saltines, but tomorrow is a new d…oh shit (literally) gotta go….
Since I am now surrounded by all men I have noticed some striking differences in how men and women remember time. Women, for instance, can tell you the major events of their lives by how much they weigh. For example, I was 125 lbs., when I graduated high school. I was 145 lbs. when I was dating So and So. I was 160 lbs. after So and So broke up with me. I was 150 lbs. at my friend’s wedding….I was 155lbs. at my friend’s second wedding. Women can tell you their EXACT weight corresponding to any event in their lives. For men it is not their weight, but their POOP! They remember life’s events by the size and distinguishing characteristics of their craps.
Recently my step-sons were talking about a trip they had taken and they were having a hard time recalling the details…”remember we went waterskiing…no”, “remember the people camping next to us had that really cool dog with three legs and only one eye….no”, remember I took that really big crap that wrapped around the toilet and then we took a picture of it to put on the internet…OH YEAH…that was a fun trip!” One crap memory and it all came back like yesterday. Men can use their poops as their emotional compass as well. I once had a boyfriend that thought he could predict how well he was going to do on a test by the kind of poop he had in the morning. “Oh no, not a good sign, it was just a pebble, looks like I’ll be getting a C+.” Ask my boys about our road trip to Seattle this summer and they can tell you details of every dump across three states.
Which brings me to the next area of discussion, as the laundress of the house and viewer of many a skid row, I wanted to share with you my stain fighting combination that I think will combat any back door deliveries your husbands and sons might leave behind. I have had great luck with the Clorox Bleach Pen and Spray and Wash’s MAX Resolve Power. They have been my friend in the laundry room. So let those boys eat cake, Taco Bell, curry…you are covered. The men will always carry their memories with them, at least these products will help you remove those memories from their underpants.
*I did not receive a product sample or compensation for this post. The views expressed here are my own.
Today it happened. I heard it would happen, I heard it did happen to others, I just never thought it would happen to me. LUCAS HAD HIS FIRST MONSTER POOP. The Mother of all poops, the Grand Poo-Bah of poops, the poops to end all poops. I could smell it as soon as I got into the room…we weren’t in Kansas anymore. To make it extra special, Lucas now HATES to have his diaper changed and wriths around, kicks his legs, and tries to sit up and climb off the diaper changing table. Monster poop Monday was no exception. As soon as I got the diaper off, the legs and the poop started flying everywhere. “Holy crap!” I yelped out, hoping for some sort of divine intervention. There was poop on the wall, the changing table, the lamp, and when Lucas lept off the changing table into my arms there was poop all over me. It looked like a crap crime scene, weapon of choice - a shit stick!
Not wanting to panic and vomit everywhere I hurriedly got the tub going for both of us while choking back mumbled cries of “mercy Jesus”, “oh Lord” and “Mary, Mother of God, help us.” I suddenly became very religious (and had a slight Irish accent) when calling for the Lord and handling a slimy poop covered baby. It was all up to God to help us now, not even Oprah could of gotten us out of this mess.
We got all cleaned up and as Lucas went down for his nap it was time to reflect. I admit I was smug about my son’s pristine bowel movements. Lucas was as regular as clockwork and not so much as a dollup found its way out of the confines of his diaper. I had nothing to contribute to the Mommy diaper horror stories, until today. I am now part of the Monster Poop Club and have been initiated. Funny though, look as I might I could not find anywhere in Lucas’ baby book to document the days blessed event.
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