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Abstract

her up for a nappy — that’s British for diaper — change.This is special, sweet time. She loves it. She coo’s and smiles all the while as her little bottom gets cleaned off with a damp cloth and diaper rash prevention goop applied to her little baby bum — that’s British for butt — and a clean new nappy and nappy liner snuggle around her and snap, snap, snap her onesies back up.Now she’s ready to cuddle and coo, play and be read to…and eventually fall asleep in our arms. At this stage of the game, we’re poised for poo. If it doesn’t come, we’re all concerned. When it comes we smile with glee and do this happy nappy dance ritual.When we potty train our kids we make a big deal about making a big doo in the toilet. We clap, we praise, and in my case, I was given candy. I learned to be proud of myself for making doo-doo in the right place at the right time. And I still am, especially now in my dotage! How long that will last all Depends.<h2 id="6b98">When did this stop?</h2>When did we stop applauding and celebrating such a vital biological function. We certainly celebrate eating. We have all kinds of food, all kinds of holidays that revolve around food. Restaurants with huge varieties of cuisine. Expensive cooking schools to teach haute cuisine and culinary excellence to the world.What happened to the other end of that process? We don’t even distinguish cuisines at the fecal end of things. We don’t notice how the fois gras distinguishes itself from the Happy Meal at the exiting end. We lump it all together and there’s no appreciation before we flush it away.Now I don’t know about you but I get a lot of emails about my poop. They ask me to notice the amount and texture and color and effort needed to produce. The reason they do this is mainly to tell me something’s wrong that only their pro-biotic digestive product can fix.Aside from those merchants, no one else seems to care. Well, my doctor cares. She’s always trying to get me to get a colonoscopy. But I have a problem with that. They put you all the way out while they take pictures. I don’t even get to look. If it’s that important, why don’t they share?I have yet to see someone post a picture of their colon or its contents online or on Facebook. (If you know otherwise, please clue me in.) We post just about everything else. Often things in close proximity.In fact that’s often used as a put down.

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Cousin Marge will talk to you for thirty minutes about her latest bowel movement — is a put down. We don’t want to hear it. And yet for her, it might constitute a huge success.<h2 id="055b">Until there’s a malfunction</h2>There’s nothing like being blocked to put the whole process front and center on our radar. Then we can’t stop thinking about it and wanting to talk about it, only to get told it’s TMI — too much information.Nowadays, we consider poop jokes too juvenile for serious comedic artistry. It’s considered low brow humor. Except here on MuddyUm where Jessica has finally broken the ice, very few are talking about it, not even in jest. Well, just a handful of us. And we probably won’t be curated for so doing.No, somewhere along the way, we went from caring and celebrating to hiding and pretending we don’t even do it. And if we do it, it’s with great discretion and delicacy and aerosol sprays that destroy the ozone.Until we get to our later years. Then it all comes back with a vengeance. To go or not to go is the biggest topic of the day. If we live in a facility they ask us that every single day.At some point, many of us may find ourselves back in nappies, and dependent on the kindness of family members or assistants to change us. But here’s the rub. We don’t make it fun for them. We don’t coo and smile. Often we grimace and grunt at the shame and embarrassment of needing this sort of help in the first place.But along with the crap in our pants, this can change. We can smile and laugh and say thank you while we sing a little ditty or tell a funny joke like this:Thank you for changing my didey And doing so without being whiny. It’s not a vice, in fact it’s nice To have the poop wiped off my hiney!Some folks are already doing this, but if more folks did, it would go a long ways towards the paradigm shift Jessica and I and a handful of others are aiming for. We can all doo our parts. This means me. This means you. Let’s all be Grand Poobahs in this life!Marilyn Flower writes political humor and satire to delight socially and spiritually conscious folks. She’s a regular columnist for the prison newsletter, Freedom Anywhere, where she writes about faith and prayer. Five of her short plays have been produced in San Francisco. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her resolve during these crazy times.</article></body>

We Love it When our Babies Poop

Why not the rest of us?

Jessica Trésor’s piece, Poop Hate is Self-Hate got me going. And I am so full of myself I feel compelled to plop out a response. It just moved me to write this and share my crappy perspective on the topic. Thank you, Jessica!

Poop-Hate Is Self-Hate

If we’re going to be all about self-love, shouldn’t we love everything?

Now I might be biased, but I just came back from a week with my brand new grandniece over in England. At three months she has an amazing life the rest of us can only drool with envy about.

Her basic cycle is eat, poop, sleep. It’s very, very, very important that she does all three of these things. If any one of them is off, it’s not a good day. The normally happy, cuddly playful cooing and cute face making in and between the Big Three dissolves into tears until equilibrium is restored.

So immediately after being satiated at the mommy mammary filling station, she cycles into her elimination phase. She grunts and makes faces. We immediately know what’s on her mind and heart.

Until that need is satiated, we feel her pain. We are on high alert. Our loving job is to help her pump her little legs in and out — squats sans gravity. It’s a family project. Everyone pitches in and does their bit to help.

We can usually tell when we’ve been successful. By smell or feel or a combination of the two. Then the luckiest member of the family has the privilege, I repeat, the privilege of taking her up for a nappy — that’s British for diaper — change.

This is special, sweet time. She loves it. She coo’s and smiles all the while as her little bottom gets cleaned off with a damp cloth and diaper rash prevention goop applied to her little baby bum — that’s British for butt — and a clean new nappy and nappy liner snuggle around her and snap, snap, snap her onesies back up.

Now she’s ready to cuddle and coo, play and be read to…and eventually fall asleep in our arms. At this stage of the game, we’re poised for poo. If it doesn’t come, we’re all concerned. When it comes we smile with glee and do this happy nappy dance ritual.

When we potty train our kids we make a big deal about making a big doo in the toilet. We clap, we praise, and in my case, I was given candy. I learned to be proud of myself for making doo-doo in the right place at the right time. And I still am, especially now in my dotage! How long that will last all Depends.

When did this stop?

When did we stop applauding and celebrating such a vital biological function. We certainly celebrate eating. We have all kinds of food, all kinds of holidays that revolve around food. Restaurants with huge varieties of cuisine. Expensive cooking schools to teach haute cuisine and culinary excellence to the world.

What happened to the other end of that process? We don’t even distinguish cuisines at the fecal end of things. We don’t notice how the fois gras distinguishes itself from the Happy Meal at the exiting end. We lump it all together and there’s no appreciation before we flush it away.

Now I don’t know about you but I get a lot of emails about my poop. They ask me to notice the amount and texture and color and effort needed to produce. The reason they do this is mainly to tell me something’s wrong that only their pro-biotic digestive product can fix.

Aside from those merchants, no one else seems to care. Well, my doctor cares. She’s always trying to get me to get a colonoscopy. But I have a problem with that. They put you all the way out while they take pictures. I don’t even get to look. If it’s that important, why don’t they share?

I have yet to see someone post a picture of their colon or its contents online or on Facebook. (If you know otherwise, please clue me in.) We post just about everything else. Often things in close proximity.

In fact that’s often used as a put down. Cousin Marge will talk to you for thirty minutes about her latest bowel movement — is a put down. We don’t want to hear it. And yet for her, it might constitute a huge success.

Until there’s a malfunction

There’s nothing like being blocked to put the whole process front and center on our radar. Then we can’t stop thinking about it and wanting to talk about it, only to get told it’s TMI — too much information.

Nowadays, we consider poop jokes too juvenile for serious comedic artistry. It’s considered low brow humor. Except here on MuddyUm where Jessica has finally broken the ice, very few are talking about it, not even in jest. Well, just a handful of us. And we probably won’t be curated for so doing.

No, somewhere along the way, we went from caring and celebrating to hiding and pretending we don’t even do it. And if we do it, it’s with great discretion and delicacy and aerosol sprays that destroy the ozone.

Until we get to our later years. Then it all comes back with a vengeance. To go or not to go is the biggest topic of the day. If we live in a facility they ask us that every single day.

At some point, many of us may find ourselves back in nappies, and dependent on the kindness of family members or assistants to change us. But here’s the rub. We don’t make it fun for them. We don’t coo and smile. Often we grimace and grunt at the shame and embarrassment of needing this sort of help in the first place.

But along with the crap in our pants, this can change. We can smile and laugh and say thank you while we sing a little ditty or tell a funny joke like this:

Thank you for changing my didey And doing so without being whiny. It’s not a vice, in fact it’s nice To have the poop wiped off my hiney!

Some folks are already doing this, but if more folks did, it would go a long ways towards the paradigm shift Jessica and I and a handful of others are aiming for. We can all doo our parts. This means me. This means you. Let’s all be Grand Poobahs in this life!

Marilyn Flower writes political humor and satire to delight socially and spiritually conscious folks. She’s a regular columnist for the prison newsletter, Freedom Anywhere, where she writes about faith and prayer. Five of her short plays have been produced in San Francisco. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her resolve during these crazy times.