October | 2015 | Eyerollingmom

If you’ve got kids (heck, if you simply know kids) you’ve got poop stories. We all do.

Some are better than others. Some become legendary.

What’s amazing is how women — moms especially — are completely unfazed by them. We don’t gag, or retch or hold up our hands in an “Oh, please stop” gesture when hearing them. We nod, take another bite of our sandwich and pour another glass of whatever.

Face it: many of us have chosen to share our lives (and our bathrooms) with well, men. Gross, odorous, smelly, aromatic, reeking men. (I happen to find this to be an immensely fair trade-off: in exchange, my lawn is mowed and I don’t have to string Christmas lights. All good. Small price.) Honestly, once women have weathered diaper duty there’s little to make us put down our food (even less to make us put down our glass).

I recently found out one of my sons has a pooping bathroom. Lucky me. It’s the one attached to my bedroom.

One day he began his business in our designated ‘kids’ bathroom when a crisis occurred: midway through, welp, he realized he was in the wrong place. (I know. I’m lucky he finds his classrooms every day. Stay with me here.) Panicked, he shuffled (visual: pants around ankles) down the looooong stretch of hallway until he reached his — er, my — sanctuary. And thus finished.

He managed to clean himself up without issue – with an entire tub of Lysol wipes. THIS, people, is what makes a mom’s forehead veins pulse – not the actual poop going into the plumbing system (only mothers of boys truly know how disproportionate this amount is to a small body) but the entire tub of Lysol wipes. Before my lid flipped I made a silent deal with the devil: Satan, oh Satan, please spare my septic tank.

My kid didn’t even tell me about his adventure until hours later (the important message being — of course — that he had run down the hall with his pants down. To him, that was the story.) Naturally.

With three sons, I have no shortage of stinky tales.

Funny thing, though, when little boys eventually grow into big men their personal attachment to bathrooms continues. My husband and his friends often marvel at the grandeur of the men’s room at our local Home Depot. Apparently it’s at the top of their list of public restrooms because – newsflash – men actually spend a great deal of time in them and pffft, yes, definitely have a Top Three.

More amusing than that: when this topic comes up in mixed company (it does and you know it) there will be women who will flatly insist they’ve gone on entire vacations without ever having going once, have waited until weekend house guests have left their own homes or who have actually waited to be home from Home Depot before finding relief (no, just me? noted).

Anywho, men (cough, my husband) will continue to be completely freaked out by this.

What I’m going to find beyond hilarious is just how many people will click onto this post knowing full well it’s about poop. Just poop.

Who knows, maybe it was that cute little poop emoji drew everyone in?

Funny stuff.

(And my septic’s getting pumped on Friday.)

(actual sign in my home………)

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Huff Post. She appeared in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone” presenting her popular essay The Thinking Girl’s Thong and her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series. That said, she still places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements (next would be as the $100,000 winner on that home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as @Eyerollingmom on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook & @Eyerollingmom on Instagram. Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

A little while back we had some fun with friends reading from one of those silly books about things a person would do for a million dollars. First of all, it was eye-opening (to the point of appalling) how different the male responses were from the females. Gain 100 pounds for a million dollars? In a heartbeat, said the guys. Whaaaat? From the low-to-middle-aged (and fighting it every step of the way) group of women (all moms, I might add), a resounding: Never.

Secondly, it was interesting how vastly conflicting my answers were from my husband’s. “BUT IT’S A MILLION DOLLARS!” he cried, clearly seeing his dreams of a state-of-the-art-man-cave fade into dust. “YOU COULD HIRE A TRAINER AFTERWARDS!” I simply shook my head. Nope; not interested. But it continued.

Send a naked picture of yourself to everyone you know? (Again, no shocker: most men would do this for far less money.) Chop off a finger? Live in a room full of mosquitoes without any repellant for 24 hours? Never again cut your toenails? Apparently there are few body parts my husband wouldn’t maim for the money. I, on the other hand, held firm: nope, nope, nope. I’m certain I saw real tears escape his eyes.

It’s not that I don’t want to bask in the decadence of buying Jimmy Choos with cash, or venturing out of Target for a new shirt, or spending carelessly, without any worries (“Come on kids, whaddya say we get you those braces AND splurge on new eyeglasses?”) but I imagine it comes down to being truly content. I guess I am.

Sure there are things I want (shamefully, I might consider trading one of my children for an unbelievable pair of leather boots) but most of my wants aren’t very material things. I don’t want a maid to do the laundry but – come on — who wouldn’t want someone to come in and simply put it away? I don’t care about the newest gadgets or latest technology but I’d sure be happy with an electronic buzzer that zapped a kid’s ankle every time a towel is dropped on the floor. I don’t even think a gourmet chef preparing my meals would be all that helpful to me – I’d be quietly thrilled if my own cooked meals were eaten without fuss or commotion. Imagine that.

It’s a good thing my husband and I are a good match. He keeps playing the lottery and I keep clipping coupons. He dreams big and I find subtle elation in a great haircut or a pair of jeans feeling a wee bit looser than the previous month. And in the spirit of a happy marriage, every once in a while we meet in the middle. Rather, I cave just a little: I did agree that yes, for a million dollars I would sleep in the Amityville Horror house for a week. With wine. But that’s it.

Absolutely, that is IT.