“Remember, Remember, The Fifth of November…”
Because that is the day my daughter ate her own poo.
Here’s what’s funny about my daughter eating her own shit: She’s an incredibly picky eater.
So picky, in fact, that we have to hide her veggies in bread. And half the time she figures it out and eats around them like a little devil genius.
Carrots? Not a chance.
Broccoli dipped in cheese? She’ll stare into my eyes, lick off the cheese, wink, and then throw the rest on the floor.
At least, I’m pretty sure she winks, because I am positive that she’s fucking with me.
She will eat anything off the floor. Literally, anything. The floor is our biggest choking hazard, and we are constantly scanning its contents to make sure there is nothing that will be deemed edible.
I wouldn’t call it a fun game, to find things before she does. It’s more of a “let’s try not to have a panic attack before breakfast” kind of game. Because when your kid puts something foreign in her mouth, you panic.
It’s natural.
What’s not natural is hurdling over every obstacle to get to her as quickly as possible. I’m not young anymore, guys. I’m nearing a 100.
It’s the stress of parenting, I think. Keeping someone alive all the time is harder than it looks, especially when they are on self-destruct mode 24/7. It definitely ages you.
Since she was born, I’ve shown all the signs of becoming an old lady:
I cut my hair short.
I’ve thrown my back out twice.
I go to bed at 6:00 p.m.
I watch Jeopardy reruns.
And I constantly have coffee breath.
The point is, my kid won’t eat anything on her plate. And it is stressful. But she’ll eat anything off the floor. And out of her diaper, apparently.
I’ve toyed with the idea of scattering her dinner across the carpet, just to see what happens.
Would she eat vegetables then? Probably not.
Would the 10 second rule still apply? It won’t.
I don’t think the ten second rule will ever apply to her again. There is nothing worse than poo. No amount of time on the floor can make something more disgusting than poo.
Honestly, I knew that this day would eventually come. I’m just glad it’s over. It was pretty traumatic…for me.
It happened this afternoon. It was just me and the baby. I was all alone.
I sent my husband a text to inform him of our sweet baby girl’s new trick. She can make her poo disappear. Totally awesome!
…but it’s in to her mouth. Less awesome.
This does not go on the blog, was his response.
Don’t worry, I told him. We aren’t the only ones.
I know this because I googled “my baby ate her own poo” as soon as she was clean.
That search is officially in my computer’s history. It feels damning, and permanent. And kind of hilarious.
My frantic search made me feel a lot better. Apparently kids eating their own poo is super common, people just won’t admit it.
It’s like a shameful fight club. Nobody talks about it.
“This should be a personal matter,” my husband insisted.
“This is why families have closets,” he urged, “for this stuff to hide in.”
Maybe.
But I think it should be known that my kid ate her poo today. And it probably won’t be my worst parenting moment.
Much like her wedding day, this will be remembered forever.
Forget Guy Fawkes. The fifth of November will forever be the day that my daughter ripped off her diaper, smeared poo on the ground, and then had a taste.
*This post has been (reluctantly) husband approved.
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