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Nurse Steffi

 We all have poop on the brain.


Nurse Steffi exiled my child from school, because of "soft stool." No one actually learns much of anything in preschool--anyway. Let that precious body rest.

I found myself pushing back. "He is clearly not ill. You once tried to send him home because his sneaker was a little itchy. Can't we all try to give him a taste of education today?"

Steffi relented--with a deep sigh. "But if he poops again before two PM, you are hopping in your car."

Over the weekend, my husband and I study each soiled diaper--as if reading tea leaves. "What if I were a single, working mom?" I ask. "I'd be leaving my job each time a shit seems watery?"

I try a low-impact diet for my son. I give him a little Jell-O; he doesn't eat it, but he sticks it on top of his head, and he says, "HAT."

I see my dreams--my published novels, my PhD. These dreams are a far-off ship, and I'm waving from the shore. Another shit occurs. While naked, my son runs from me; next, he wants me to use a fresh diaper as a kind of "matador's cape." And, at last, he slows down. He dresses. He sings--a bit.

He poops.

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