Taking Care of the Poop

I won't poop in our trailer camper. I'll pee in it, but I won't poop. Ever since we bought our camper last summer, and on every trip since, I've had a restroom close by in the RV campgrounds to do my business. 

The camper bathroom is tiny, but that's not the problem (although they could've installed the damn thing at a diagonal angle). We treat our camper toilet tank with the proper chemicals as well, so that's not the problem either. I'm not sure what the problem is exactly, I just know I have one. Whether I use it or not, however, I'm the sewer guy who takes care of the poop.

We don't flush toilet paper in our camper toilet. Instead, the rest of the family (not me) puts the toilet paper in a zip lock and then we throw it away each day of our trips (you may have traveled to places that don't want you to flush toilet paper). Even with the toilet chemicals that break down the, well, the stuff, we decided not to flush the paper. They can more quickly over time gunk up the toilet tank, more so than the, well, the other stuff. That may be too much information for some, but for those you and your families who have an RV, or have friends or family who have one, you understand.

My wife Amy and our two daughters, they do use the toilet for both, and also use the campground bathrooms. We'll never be tent campers (although I never said I'd own an RV either). Even when I romanticize my childhood tent camping with my family at Huntington Lake in the Sierra Nevadas, I don't miss the fact that we don't do that now. And if we did, we'd still have the campground bathrooms or outhouses to use. 

Even when Amy romanticizes hiking along the Pacific Crest Trail (think the novel Wild and the movie starring Reese Witherspoon), it's never gonna happen. The year after we met, Amy and one of her best friends took a safari trip to Africa and camped in tents in Serengeti National Park. It was an amazing trip until they all got dysentery for a few days. And that was the end of tent camping for her. Plus, hiking and camping in the wilderness means you dig a hole and you bury your poop, and while both us could do it, we don't want to do it. 

In full disclosure, since I've already let the poop out of the bag as they say (not sure who "they" are and if that's really what they say), I did poop once in the camper. We were in Joshua Tree a few months ago, and Amy and the girls went off on a Hollywood excursion while I stayed in the camper to watch our dog Jenny and catch up on some work. And that's all I'll share about that. 

Amy and I have been taking care of our own poop for decades now. As kids we eventually learned how to take care of our own business. The same thing for our own children; we took care of their poop until we didn't have to, although as parents, you know the variance in that waste equation. When we did decide to buy our trailer camper, taking care of the waste equation for Mom and kids was critical. 

We're now halfway through this year's summer road trip of camping, one that echoes a trip Amy and I took 14 years ago in May of 2007. A trip where the idea of the girls was born. Or, the idea of children for us was born. A two-week trip through the Southwest and many gorgeous National Parks, including Bryce's namesake (Bryce Canyon National Park). Another amazing family journey generating many more loving memories to add to our grateful jars, and Dad taking care of the poop, unconditionally. 

The Poop Completion Principle

At the door I paused. Is it safe? I thought. Will it be clear? Will it be fresh?

It was a one in three shot in this house, finding a clean one to visit. The good news is that we keep them clean with regularity, me being the latest scrubber and wiper-downer. 

I crept into the bathroom, not sensing anything unusual, no pungent smells assaulting my nostrils or watering my eyes. As I inched closer to the toilet, my confidence level increased that all would be well in the #BhivePower world.

Thank good--

Before I could finish my thought, I had made it to the eggshell white abyss and peered into its watery bowl. There it was in all its normal functional glory: poop.

Noooooooooo!!!

"Hey, who didn't flush the toilet?!?" I yelled.

No response. I knew the girls were in the living room playing. 

"Who didn't flush?" echoed the Mama.

Still nothing; the girls were playing pet adoption with their stuffed animals.

"Who didn't flush the toilet?!?"

"How big is the poop?" answered Beatrice finally.

"Does it matter?"

"Then it was Bryce."

Sigh. Of course is was the other. It's always one or the other. Much more Bryce these days than Bea, but still...

Months and months if not more of potty training to get them the tipping point of poop-wipe-flush-wash. But the flushing part? Not so much. Yes, we're still in a drought in California even with the El Niño storms, and the old adage "when it's yellow let it mellow, but when it's brown flush it down" has always been one we've practiced, drought or no drought.

The flushing is a struggle because of the noise outside of the home. Beatrice has always been noise sensitive and those industrial toilets in schools, businesses and other locales can frighten even those wearing ear plugs or ear muffs. They are really friggin' loud. Like blasting the waste into another universe via a porcelain wormhole.

Bryce is also sensitive to it, but she's just not as hip to the poop completion principle, not always wiping and usually never flushing. Washing hands are intermittent as well, but Beatrice is really good about that these days.

Wiping correctly takes a while and any parent who does the family laundry can attest to that. Mercy me, even in adulthood it's a struggle sometimes, but at least we've got most of the traditional peeing, pooping, wiping, flushing and washing hands in a sustainable cadence. With the only exceptions being if you're camping, having to use holes in the ground of bathrooms (Mama and I have seen a few of those in our travels), an astronaut (and those are very expensive holes), and unfortunately living in poverty and third-world squalor. 

Fortunately we're in good potty shape overall. It'll take practice and patience with Bryce, but eventually she'll get there. And at least I've got a fun activity waiting for me when I get there as well.

[Flush!]

Your favorite poop spot

Where's your favorite poop spot?

Yes, I just asked that question. So where is it?

For my youngest Bryce, it's sitting (and squatting) on her little bedroom chair in front of her little table with the farm house and animals. Or, it's on her little stool in front of her little kitchen set in the

What? She wears a diaper. C'mon.

Same with Beatrice, although we are in a fast-track transition with her finally going pee-pee on the potty! Next stop is poop train to the toilet! Until then the poop spot means quiet time in her bed.

What are you looking at? Get out!

Again I ask you -- where's your favorite poop spot?

Your main bathroom?

The guest bath?

The half bath?

The out house?

The guest house?

The back yard? (Keep that one to yourself.)

The hotel room bathroom when traveling for business alone?

The hotel lobby bathroom when traveling for business with colleagues?

The hotel room bathroom when traveling with family (and room spray)?

The corner stall of the bathroom at work?

The corner stall of the bathroom at work -- on another floor?

The corner stall of the bathroom at another office building down the street from where you work?

A quiet place to reflect, read, meditate and/or pray, to blot out an otherwise business-as-usual stress-filled day?

Mine is our master bedroom bathroom. Or, the male/female single shared bathrooms at work (one at a time, thank you). This may be too much info for the Mama, so I won't speak for her.

Hey, there's a Zen sense of animistic liberty when we poop -- having ownership over a specific bodily function in an otherwise cruel, chaotic world.

For at least as long as we can, baby. We can go out just as we came in, so let's pay homage to our favorite poop spot.

Ahhh. Nirvana…

The Daddy K files: Happy baby poop face morphs

It's time for Fatherhood Friday and this time I made it on Friday. Fatherhood Friday is hip place at Dad-Blogs.com for dads and moms to share stories, ideas, photos and movies with one topic in mind – fatherhood.

It wouldn't be new parenting with poop. Lots and lots of poop. I originally posted The Daddy K files: The sugar-and-spice myth debunked last November and now there's a frightening addendum.

Recently on some news radio show, I heard that women may be dirtier than men – i.e., they have more strains of bacteria on their skin than men do.

I was floored. I had to pull over and hyperventilate. Actually that was because I had arrived at work and had to go inside. And work.

I'm not sure if the sugar-and-spice myth is cross-cultural, but this anthropology minor has always been fascinated by it. Growing up, girls were ethereal and angelic. Even the anomalies of tom boys fell into a "not of this world" category. Anatomically speaking, girls were as seamless and smooth as the Barbie's we observed with scientific fascination (while we giggled obsessively at the curves and valleys).

Bathrooms were for boys to do their dirty business, but solely for the beautification of girls. In fact, I believed the rumor that public women's restrooms in restaurants, hotels and elsewhere were nothing more than elegant buffets and glittery lounges with eunuchs swinging feather fans.

Even when I grew up and lived with women, the illusion remained. The greatest magicians of today and yesterday (predominantly men) have nothing on the female sleight of hand.

Pregnancy pulled the curtain back a bit, but it was always me who left the bathroom shamed, odiferous air wafting after me like the guilt from a night of nacho/beer binging.

But now that I have a baby daughter, I know the devastating truth. It was horrifying at first, the stark reality slapping me across the face multiple times each day. I couldn't eat or sleep for weeks.

I'm better now; this book has been a Godsend.

Gentlemen, hold my hand. It'll be okay.

Girls poop. A lot.

Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya…

Fast forward to a week ago Sunday. Mama A and I are eating lunch and Mama is also feeding Baby B pureed organic pears. Bea loves those pureed organic pears.

And breast milk. It still wouldn't be a complete meal without the breast milk.

So we're all eating lunch and Bea starts tooting (baby girls don't fart, they toot) and then calls out in her high-pitched Hindi baby velociraptor shriek followed by a huge open-mouth smile.

Happy baby poop face.

Usually the pooping lasts for a minute or two and then she's done.

But this time the tooting keeps coming and the happy baby poop face morphs into unhappy adult grimace red poop face. This continues for almost 10 minutes while we finish lunch.

Now, I've seen baby blow outs before; they don't faze me anymore. We remove Bea from her baby chair and take to her to the living room changing area (every living room should have one).

As soon as I lift her shirt I know we're in trouble. Dear God I haven't see that much muck since fishing in my grandparents' slimy mountain pond when I was 12. I almost call the local hazmat team in. The sun turns blood red. There are locusts.

We wipe off what we can with at least a dozen of her cloth diapers and then Mama carries her – arms extended as far away from her person as possible – quickly to the kitchen sink where I proceed to hose her down with the faucet sprayer.

Horrid. A scene out of Silkwood. Baby howls and we try to console her.

Finally she settles down, we dry her off, get her dressed and all is well with the world again.

Hours later Mama finds poop on her foot.

Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya…

The Daddy K files: The sugar-and-spice myth debunked

Recently on some news radio show, I heard that women may be dirtier than men – i.e., they have more strains of bacteria on their skin than men do.

I was floored. I had to pull over and hyperventilate. Actually that was because I had arrived at work and had to go inside. And work.

I'm not sure if the sugar-and-spice myth is cross-cultural, but this anthropology minor has always been fascinated by it. Growing up, girls were ethereal and angelic. Even the anomalies of tom boys fell into a "not of this world" category. Anatomically speaking, girls were as seamless and smooth as the Barbie's we observed with scientific fascination (while we giggled obsessively at the curves and valleys).

Bathrooms were for boys to do their dirty business, but solely for the beautification of girls. In fact, I believed the rumor that public women's restrooms in restaurants, hotels and elsewhere were nothing more than elegant buffets and glittery lounges with eunuchs swinging feather fans.

Even when I grew up and lived with women, the illusion remained. The greatest magicians of today and yesterday (predominantly men) have nothing on the female sleight of hand.

Pregnancy pulled the curtain back a bit, but it was always me who left the bathroom shamed, odiferous air wafting after me like the guilt from a night of nacho/beer binging.

But now that I have a baby daughter, I know the devastating truth. It was horrifying at first, the stark reality slapping me across the face multiple times each day. I couldn't eat or sleep for weeks.

I'm better now; this book has been a Godsend.

Gentlemen, hold my hand. It'll be okay.

Girls poop. A lot.

Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya…