People without children do not realize just how much you end up talking about poop when you have a baby.
It's a lot.
When the Juban Princeling and I were still in the hospital after he was born, I was given a little chart to keep track of everything that went into or came out of him. In his first 24 hours of life he was expected to do a poop. He did four. I mention that accomplishment proudly, as if quadrupling the number of expected poops confirms that my dream of him one day becoming the first Juban president of the United States will come true.
In the following months, when the Princeling's hair still had that new-baby smell, his father and I talked about his poops almost constantly. As new parents you just sort of have to. It's one of few ways to know what's going on inside his little body. Six months later we still talk about his poops a lot, but we sort of figure we're the only people on the planet who are that obsessed with what comes out of his toushie. Maybe his grandmothers care.
Last weekend we learned, however, that poop is not only a topic of conversation among new parents, it's pretty much the only topic for any new parents. My mother was in town for a visit, and one of the days she was here we all piled into a rented car and drove five hours to visit my cousin Rudy, his wife Mrs. Rudy, and their three month old baby boy, Rudy, Jr., in Virginia. We thought it would be cute for the second-cousins, Princeling and Junior, to do whatever it is babies that age do amongst themselves. Unfortunately, the two babies were on completely opposing nap schedules, and so at best they spent five minute intervals offering their slobbery hands to one another before one would get cranky and had to be tagged out by the other for a trip to Napland, U.S.A.
Meanwhile, this was the first time Husband and I got to spend hours and hours with another set of new parents. I've known Rudy my whole life, and though he grew up in Chicago while I grew up in Miami, we have many, many fond memories together. He's sort of like the older brother I always wanted. And Mrs. Rudy is simply one of my favorite people on earth. She's an engineer for FEMA, and an Excel goddess. During our visit she showed us the spreadsheet she had made for Junior's eating and sleeping habits, including formulas to automatically calculate how much of each he was doing per day. I nearly wept with appreciation and love. I tried to keep a sleep log for the Princeling once, but got so frustrated by every little time I had to go in and re-soothe or re-paci him that I gave up after four days. And here was Mrs. Rudy with her Excel Baby Chart of Awesome Awesomeness. God bless you, Mrs. Rudy.
And still.
Of the 13 waking hours we spent with my cousin and his wife, approximately 12 ½ of those were spent talking about our children's poop. How often they poop. Whether pooping causes them to cry. How messy the poop is. What color and texture it generally is and times when the color and texture were not the norm. (The other half hour we talked about "Lost." We all agreed that new parenthood is a lot like having to push a button every 108 minutes or else the whole world will explode.)
And of course, we swapped poop stories. New parents have the best poop stories.
I did my impression of the time I held the Princeling in a standing position on my lap and "danced" with him, when he suddenly squished up his face, let out a tiny grunt, and half-squatted right there on my lap. Yup, he had just pooped before my very eyes.
Rudy and Mrs. Rudy, in exchange, shared with us a story, the details of which I will spare you, but which began with what has to be one of my favorite lines of all time: "And then the second time he pooped on the wall..."
We commiserated over those times when we think our babies are done pooping, only to take the dirty diaper off and find them still...going. Nothing says parental love like saying to your child, "Ok, then. Let me know when you're done," to which mine usually responds by laughing and sucking his own toes. While he finishes.
Between the four of us, we possess an impressive collection of university degrees, professions, and skill sets. Yet we could not get away from the topic of poop all weekend long.
And through it all, my mother sat on my cousin's big blue couch, sipped wine, and cackled with laughter at the rookie parents. Well, maybe she didn't quite cackle so much as kept to herself with the beatific smile of one who has raised two children of her own to semi-functional adulthood and knows, even if we in the moment do not, that there is Life Beyond Poop.