Raindrops on Roses

…and teardrops and sneezes. The muppets have experienced their first rainstorm. I do not think they liked it.

Now, the muppets didn’t actually venture out into dreary, drippy gloom, but they spent a very cranky day making their displeasure known.  The day began with Destroy screaming for food at the top of his (rapidly growing) lungs. I quietly entered the nursery figuring Search was still asleep and I could feed both boys without rousing the rest of the house. Search was not asleep. Search was voraciously gnawing on his brother – which, in retrospect, may have also contributed to Destroy’s screaming.

It became readily apparent that they were going to have a “Hold Me” day. Not so bad, I thought – with the rain pounding down on the roof, we can sit back and cuddle in our jammies.

Nope.

We were having a “Hold Me and Do Something Entertaining” day. Problem was, neither Search nor Destroy could figure out precisely what they found entertaining.

Compounded the crankiness were two uncomfortable tummy aches. Destroy wouldn’t sit; he would arch his back and wail. Search kept scrunching up his legs into his tummy while his lower lip would pout and begin to quiver as he sobbed.

It suddenly became very clear. The muppets had to poop. Search’s last download was eight days ago – it was imminent. Sure enough, as Search squirmed around in his bouncy chair, GrammaJ and I heard the unmistakable sound of a young child airing out his insides. Shortly thereafter, the accompanying pungent aroma began slowly perfuming the room.

The dogs got up and left.

I clapped and cheered the accomplishment of this recent bodily function and scooped up the child for a now urgent diaper change. But he wasn’t finished. As I was finishing up with the first change, another wave of baby poo oozed out onto the second diaper – then a third. I reached over to grab the fourth diaper of this monumental change when I heard it. An explosion emerged from my son. I shrieked – poop cleared the diaper laid out on the changing table, spraying a bit onto the pad and splattered across the cardboard boxes holding high chairs in the corner of the nursery. Search looked up at me, his face breaking into a huge grin. Well done!

As I was telling this story, a friend interrupted me. “You ever have those moments where you stop and think, ‘I used to be cooler than this…and now look at me.’?” I responded with the appropriate cliché about how, considering everything we’ve been through with the muppets, dynamite poop couldn’t be cooler.

But the truth is, I was never cool. Life prior to the muppets often found me yelling at the dog for eating his own poop. Whereas I used to get home from work and ask, “What did the dog eat today,” now I get home to discover how many outfits have been changed due to a puking incident. (For curious readers, the records stand at the California Penal Code, leather boots, two baseball gloves and five respectively.)

What parenthood has brought me, are the stories to tell of things I never thought I’d hear myself saying or doing. “Sweetie, please don’t try to eat your brother.” And poop is cause for celebration.