I very rarely write about poop… because it leaves too much room for pun. (Crappy pun at that.) Seee? But I’m breaking the rule today because it seems to be a fresh fascination in my household. At least with one short, diaper-clad member…
“Poooop” is one of the handful of words/concepts/ideas that Zachary, at 19 months old, can correctly identify with relative certainty and consistency. Sure, sure mama, daddy, milk, puppy, Elmo, and MIIINE have their superior spot in the verbal aptitude pecking order, but “poooop” is next. When he has just filled a diaper… ”poooop.” He’ll point at the dog’s heinie and say ”poooop.” (We are hoping this practice remains at a comfortable distance for both us and the dog.) If something stinks like you-know-what… ”poooop.” If anyone goes into the bathroom… even to wash their hands… ”poooop.” And as a result, I’m afraid to fart, for fear he’ll tell the world (or the produce guy) that I just “pooooped.” This stinks.
As a stepmomish / girlfriend to two 12 year old boys – poop doesn’t go away. It just gets funnier.
As a girlfriend to a 39 year old man – poop doesn’t go away. It just gets funnier. Especially when it’s your 12 year old boys ripping them. Just sayin’