Thursday, June 9, 2011

Is That Poop Or Meat?

Morning Readers,

     There’s a saying around the split-level, “If you don’t know what it is, taste it.” Sometimes this works out well for the taster, sometimes not.  Usually, ambiguous spots and splotches are discovered to be harmless chocolate or leftover motor oil. We’re not science-minded folk, and poking, prodding and sampling things like apes, is usually our modus operandi.

     “Is that poop or meat?” I looked down at my son, expecting an answer from an individual who, earlier that morning, had tried to eat cheerios out of my hand like a small, baby goat.

     He looked back at me from the changing table, grinned widely with all four teeth, and said, “Ma”.

     The interrogation at a stand-still, I looked dubiously at the little, brown ball that had, seconds before, rolled out of Butch’s diaper, and landed on the changing table.

What was it?

     Normally, I don’t give instances such as these any thought, but the fact the crumbly lump looked shockingly like the meatloaf we’d just eaten, gave me pause. Instead of scooping it up and throwing it away, my mind came up with three options.

a.) Poop
b.) Meatloaf
c.) Meatloaf which had been digested, whole, and evacuated miraculously in the five minutes since dinner finished.
     I got brave and took a closer look. If my son had such a stunning digestive tract, Ripley’s Believe It Or Not needed to know about it. Then again, if it was a piece of poop that looked so much like meatloaf, it confused the general populace, Ripley’s still needed to know about it. I'd call first thing in the morning, right after I looked for a decent picture to send to the Today Show...something that suggested I kept up with tweezing between my eyes.
     One thing was for sure, the Kellerman Tasting Rule didn't apply here. Instead, I grabbed a wipe and prodded it. No change. Still unsure, I scooped it up and looked it, simultaneously using my left hand to keep the baby from going into free-fall. "Son, hold still. Mommy's gotta figure out what fell out of you."
     I'll take this opportunity to comment on the mental state of the modern housewife. What you, my Readers, must understand, is the structure of a mother's brain. The left side is taken-up by bills, laundry, cooking (or defrosting), cleaning, finding missing socks, writing letters to congress, defense strategies against the family dog, reserve nose-wiping techniques, and advanced spider-killing skills. On the right, a recipe for gin and tonic and the shred of memory it takes to remember how to dress oneself before going out in public.
     So, you see, there's not much room for common sense. Without any available brain space, the mother is left staring at things, like poop, and wondering about it, instead of throwing it away. Fortunately, I didn't have a chance to wrap it up and call MSNBC. The Rattling of the garage door opening and the sound of Husband coming up the steps shook me back to reality.

     "Hey Honey, I put some clean clothes on the bed for you. How was your day?"

     "Thanks, Babe. It was good. Hey, what are we having for dinner?"

     I looked at the trashcan. "Poop Loaf".


Until Next Time Readers!

PS. Because I love the sound of my name so much, the new web address for this site is now Google's being a little difficult, so getting things re-directed to the new address is proving to be a bit of a challenge. I like challenges about as much as I like poop, so I appreciate your patience, Readers.