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Dad Diary

 I'm still amazed by the number of times I'm saying "poop" in a serious conversation.


My child's teacher asks for "butt paste," and I'm startled. "Butt paste" is a puzzling term to hear, if you're a gay man. I understand, suddenly, that the request is for Desitin, and I work hard not to giggle.

The teacher reports that my son "pooped again," and I become a detective in a film noir. "Exactly what time was the poop?" I ask. I wonder why this question is relevant. 

The teacher assembles a team of paraprofessionals; I hear testimony from several witnesses. "Runny." "It seemed to start to crawl up his back." I ponder: What is my face meant to do in this scene? What is being asked of me, here and now?

In her memoir, Mary Rodgers advises all parents not to get too stressed about toilet training. "No one gets married in a diaper," she writes. "If someone *does* get married in a diaper....well, God bless him. And may he be very, very happy."

In a long stretch of runny poops, one hard poop emerges. Just a hard nugget--right before bed. My husband and I admire the poop; we think that this is an end to the drama. Problem solved!

And then the floodgates reopen.

I travel to my inner "happy place," and I roll up my sleeves.
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