Last week, my eleven-year-old left me a present-- an unflushed toilet bearing what could have been confused for horse hockey. After a reminder to come take care of the matter, I assumed that this slip in judgment was resolved. The next day, however, I came home to a clot of poo on the toilet seat. As you can see, there is a lot of poo in child rearing, both actual and metaphorical. It can wear a good woman out.
Most Saturdays, my daughter has a riding lesson, and then we treat ourselves to lunch out after. This past Saturday we were trying to squeeze in a haircut, but my son pooped in his pants. I had to drive home, clean him up, change his clothes, run the wash, return to the hairdresser's, and forego lunch until after. About that time, we discovered the cause for his accident: a virus. We ordered lunch to go after his fifteen-minute diarrhea session at the restaurant, came home to care for a sick child, and then cancelled afternoon plans. So much for going to Car Pool to clean the horse manure off the car mats from the morning at the barn.
That afternoon, as I sat near my son while he pottied, he uttered these wise words: "Mom, I hate diarrhea. It's hard, it's complicated, it's frustrating... it's diarrhea." I think even he can draw the parallels between actual poop and that which is symbolic of poop.