Poopy Thoughts

I'm really tired of poop.
My kids name everything "poop".
Their stuffed animals, drawings, food, and anything else that can be named, will be named "poop".
We talk about poop at the end of the day, "How was baby's poop?"
During bedtime stories, "Do the three bears poop?"
"What about Pinnochio? How do puppets poop?"
Then we have the book, "Everyone Poops". A favorite of course.
Usually the toilet overflows because somewhere on it's journey to the sewer, there is a poop, stuck.
There is constant vacuuming and sweeping of various pets' poops.
The next door neighbor's dog loves to leave us a fresh poop.
The owl family not only throws up bones, but also poops from high above onto our cars below.
When I go to Las Vegas and look at the huge five thousand person hotels I think, "Where does all that poop go?"
They must have a secret poop river that runs out of the city and into some remote FLDS farming community.
Or do they store the poop and recycle it into electricity for all of those strobe lights?

What I really don't like is when someone tries to convince you to like something that is not likeable.
Or accept something that is unacceptable. Or talk you into something that is really awful.
No matter how they try to dress it up and make it smell good,
it's still poop.

The End

The parent game.

"Go to your room!"

The exhausted mother watches her daughter, so young and fragile, slowly climb the stairs. She is whimpering softly.
How many times does she have to tell her, the mother thinks to herself.
Guilt sets in. Did she really need to yell?

"Honey..." She says softly peeking into her daughter's warm bedroom. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell."

"Well, you hurt my feelings Mom. I don't like it when you yell. You yell a lot Mom." The daughter says defiantly.

The mother is startled by this comment. She had just upped her anti depressants a few weeks ago and thought she had stopped yelling, temporarily. She starts to raise her voice, "I don't yell a lot! Maybe on occasion when I am in traffic and you want to hear your terrible, electronic, crap music while I'm listening to my new Kenny G album. It's my car and my music. I'll play whatever I want."

The young girl dives onto her bed and begins to whimper again. Then pops her head up and says, "You do yell a lot Mommy. When I go to friend's houses their mom's don't yell like you do." She is pursing her lips and and giving her mother an angry stare.

"Well," the mother retorts, "Maybe you should just go live with them since they are so nice and I am so mean. What happens when you don't listen to Gabriella's mom? What will Hellen do when she asks you to do something and you pretend not to hear? Trust me, she'll yell too."

The daughter with a determined snear on her face, leans forward and says, "You yell more than anyone I know. Even more than Mr. Peters."

"That's it!" The mother yells, "I can't listen to you criticize me any more. I don't YELL! You can sit here in your room and think about how you should respect your mother."

She closes the door and hears papers and clothes being thrown around her daughter's room.
The mother goes in the bathroom chanting a mantra her therapist had given her, "Breathe in peace, breathe out anger. Breathe in calm, breathe out tension. Breathe in fresh baked bread, breathe out okra." The mother looks at herself in the bathroom mirror and sees a sad and confused middle aged woman.

"Whaaa, haaa, whaaa, aaa...," the crying from her daughter's room grows louder increasing in volume with each breathe.

The mother takes two deep breaths and slowly walks calmly back to where the wailing is coming from. She cracks the door to see if it's safe to enter and says softly, "Honey..."

The petite girl groans, "ennnhhhh...," and puts her pillow over her head.

"Honey?" The mother asks softly tiptoeing closer to her daughter's girly four poster bed.

A muffled, "What?" seeps out from under the pillow.

"I'm sorry I got angry sweatheart." The mother says sitting softly next to the long thin shape under the blankets. "I have to remember that you are learning right now and that you are going to hurt my feelings sometimes. This is a difficult age for you."
"And me,"the voice says from the pillow.

There is a moment of silence.

Her daughter's small, thin hand comes out from under the pillow and grabs the mother's hand. She peeks out from under the safety of her pillow and wipes the tears from her eyes.

The mother gives her daughter a hug and says, "I love you sweetie. Even when I'm mad, I still love you."

The young girl look up into her mother's eyes and says, "I love you mom."
"Even when you are mean, I still love you."

The preteen girl hugs her mother and says, "But you still yell more than any of the other mom's."

"I have to remind myself that you are learning, Mom, and that you might hurt my feelings sometimes," the girl says only half seriously.

"Thank you sweetie," the exhausted mother exhales. "I'll go make dinner."