Pooping. Alone. Yeah, right.

Doesn’t anyone think it’s unfair that your kids get to crap with the luxury of their own time while you–the parent–are practically tearing your sphincter in half trying to squeeze that poop out at the speed of light before one of the kids decides to impale the other?

Seriously. I think there should “parent counseling” before you’re allowed to have children similar to marriage counseling. It would go like this:

Counselor: “So, you think you’re ready to have a baby?”
Prospective Parents: “Yes! We can’t wait!”
Counselor: “Do you realize that pooping will never be the same again?”
Prospective Parents: “Uh, I guess so… Hadn’t really thought about it.”
Counselor: “Really. As in, you’ll be sitting on the pot with children on the other side screaming your name. It will be like being surrounded by mini paparazzi sans cameras, but louder.”
Prospective Parents: “Okay, well, we’ll manage.”
Counselor: “And you’ll need to poop so bad. You’ll be in the middle of trying to squeeze out a gnarly one and grunting answers to questions at the same time. Like, ‘Your sippy cuuuuuuup is by the FRIIIIIIIIIDGE!’ Here, why don’t you two go hide in the bathroom and we’ll practice”
Prospective Parents: “Um… maybe we’ll wait a couple years…”

Of all the things you have to do as a parent like cleaning up explosive newborn diapers that go all the way to the baby’s neck or scrubbing permanent markers off the wall or standing on stools to pull sticky-hand toys off the ceiling, you’d think we parents would have earned at least a few minutes to do the deed in peace and quiet.

But no. No. No. No.

As I went to the restroom today, the first thing I hear after sitting down is a small voice on the other side of the door calling, “I need to use the bathroom bad!”

Seriously? There are three other bathrooms in our house and this is the one you choose???

“Go upstairs!” I call.

“I don’t want to go upstairs alone,” he whines.

Of course. But that’s why you have siblings. For this sole purpose.

“Take Z-boy with you!” I command.

My yell is met with another voice.

“Hey Mom, why do you have Roblox on your computer?”

Oh! For the love of–


Silence. Then K-girl wailing in her nasal, sing-song voice from the kitchen table where she had been pleasantly finishing her supper. “I’m dooooone! I’m doooooone!”

“Z-boy,” I cry, “Can you help her down?!”

Honestly? Can’t they go two seconds without me? I mean, it’s nice to be needed, but this is ridiculous.

And then, “Mommy?! Where’s Mommy?!”

Okay. That’s it. I’m done. Maybe I can slide my underwear underneath the door and wave them like the white flag of surrender. Next time I see a toddler crapping in their pants at their own leisure, I’ll try not to be too jealous.


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