Plenty of love in the poop home
Love can be measured in poop. Truly. Consider the newborn human who has just arrived on this planet, poopless.
Consider the new baby’s mammy anxiously awaiting her darling’s first-ever official poop.
Consider the arrival of that initial poop. Consider its appearance, literally, and picture Mammy, her infant’s health and welfare in mind, examining the brand new poop for colour and texture and volume and any other characteristics that exhibit poop’s … well, purity, I s’pose.
Satisfied the poop is perfect, Mammy lovingly clasps her offspring to her bosom. If she were being sketched, the artist would likely doodle a drift of sparkling hearts above mother and child.
Albeit welcome, before squeezing baby in her arms, I s’pose Mammy would dispose of the poop by depositing it where even cherished poop is destined to be consigned. Into the poopy diaper pail, eh b’ys? “Harry!” “Oh poop!” said I in a whisper too low for Dearest Duck’s ears to hear.
Over my shoulder Dearest Duck read not only my few scribbled lines and the spaces in between but also, so it seemed, my very mind.
“I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to talk about running the poop home,” she said, lovingly caressing my neck and sweetly kissing my noggin. See, love can be measured in poop. Rather than struggle with the chore of editing these scribbles, for the sake of accuracy I’m going to re-write my opening sentence right here. A mother’s love can be measured in poop. Imagine the first couple of years of a new human’s life and the bulk of poop produced. As well, ponder the poop’s aromatic attributes; its viscosity; the glueyness with which it adheres not only to a disposable diaper but also to baby’s flesh in every crack and bottom dimple.
Only a mother can fist into that mess day-after-day and still love the poop’s producer.
Yes, I know, fathers too help carry the load, so-tospeak, but to include them would require another revision of my opening statement.
Oh, double-poop, triple-poop. It turns out I have to revise my topic sentence anyway.
Here goes: A mother’s love can be measured in dog poop. Recently, I saw written proof of this universal truth. Truly. The proof was printed in coloured letters on a Mother’s Day card, one of those handmade cards elementary school teachers have their pupils construct for said maternal occasion.
I saw the card propped on a mantelpiece in a young mother’s living room. Curious, not nosey as Dearest Duck would likely say, I picked it up, glanced at the frilly heart on its front and spread it open: Mommy, I Love You Because … The reasons were listed underneath: • you hug me when I’m hurt; • you feed me delicious food; • you buy me pretty clothes; • you read me bedtime stories; and, • you run the poop home. See that last one? You run the poop home! Needless to say, I saw that one as my favourite reason for loving Mommy.
I can’t resist repetition at this point: Why wouldn’t a child love Mommy for running the poop home?
I tried to imagine the specifics of the action that generated such love. Mommy lugging poopy diapers home to the diaper burial grounds? Mommy sneaking out the back door of a friend’s house with a poopy diaper and dashing back home to dispose of its contents on … well, on home turf, so to speak? Mommy scurrying home from the playground, poopy diaper hoisted like a trophy. Not to lodge it, as if on a pedestal, on the mantelpiece, I hoped.
“Harry, you’re being disgusting!” said Dearest Duck, a measure of love absent from her eyes.
Replacing the card on the mantelpiece, I asked the Mommy the significance of the poopy love.
This is what she said. “Mary [real name withheld for my own protection] promised to care for her new puppy, including scooping up Rover’s [real name withheld again for my protection] poop. The very first time we took Rover for a walk around the block, he pooped on the corner. Mary cried and refused to scoop the poop. What could I do? While Mary waited, I scooped the poop into a baggie and ran back home to toss it in the garbage.”
See, a mother’s love can be measured in dog poop, eh b’ys?
Thank you for reading. And, if you must, run the poop home.
— Harold Walters lives Happily Ever After in Dunville, in the only Canadian province with its own time zone. How cool is that? Reach him at firstname.lastname@example.org