By my estimation, I’ve picked up 14,000 piles of dog shit during 10,000 dog walks over the past 25 years. I am an expert in dog shit. I know when my dogs are feeling great. I know if my dog ate some dead thing in the back yard. I know if my dog is sick. I know if I fed my dog too many scraps. I know if my dog held in a poop too long because she didn’t want to go out in the rain. I can read their poops like a forensic scientist reads fingerprints.
I have my favorites – those solid, cigar sized perfect turds that are easy to pick up, hardly smell and fit perfectly in the poop bag. Then there are the stinkies – coated in slime, smeared all over the lawn and the consistency of pudding. Regardless, with my volume of experience, nothing phases me much anymore.
At least, nothing phases me when it comes to dog turds.
Baby poop is an entirely different matter. In two books I recently borrowed from the library, the authors wrote autobiographical essays. Unfortunately for me this included writing about their kids.
One book was written by an expatriate US woman who lived in France. It was purportedly about turning 40, her life changes and the sociological changes that occur around midlife. She was married and had three young teenage kids.
The second book was about a family of five – two adults and 3 teens – who traveled the world for a year together visiting second and third world countries.
I couldn’t make it through either book. Both authors spent an inordinate number of pages writing about when their kids were babies. Specifically, they wrote a lot about baby shit. Literally – shit. And diapers. And getting up in the middle of the night. And having shit on your hands. And the color of the shit. And the smell of the shit. And the consistency of the shit.
Shit was, literally, the focus of an entire chapter in each book.
I never had any experience with babies. My sister is 2 years older than me. My stepkids were 5 and 10 when I met their mom. None of the 20 kids my stepfather moved into our homes were younger than 6. None of the older ones had babies when they lived with us.
I only babysat toddlers a few times in my life and never changed a diaper.
So I am not an expert when it comes to baby shit.
But I get it – I guess. I had a friend who told me that he became oddly fascinated by it when he had his first child. Clearly, it made a lasting impression on both authors. I’m told it’s made a similar impression on many parents.
As for me – I literally couldn’t give a shit.