I hate poo.  I really fucking hate it.   It used to shit me to tears when those Stepford mothers would smile and say, “Oh you don’t mind at all when it is your own child.”  Are you shitting me?  When Archie or Rissie first did that black tar creation after they had been home for a few days I contemplated asking if it was too late to take them back.  I had no time to deal with that sort of evil shit.

I tried wearing pegs on my nose. Once I wore a scuba diving mask which resulted in Archie freaking out which created its own little shit storm. Nothing seemed to work, because invariably I would dry retch, heave, and vomit into a bucket by the change table.   Truly putrid.   I am so glad those days are gone.  Recently, poor little Rissie had an accident and when she came to me with some dirty undies I had to back away and say to her “Throw them out!” I was not dealing with that shit.

I have never really been good with bodily functions but for me poo is the worst.  I used to be frustrated, repelled and fascinated by my ex-husband’s number two habits.  After about a year of wondering how the hell anyone could take 30 minutes to do a shit, I asked him.   Apparently it didn’t take 30 minutes, he did the poo first and then sat on top of it, reading or doing a crossword.  For me that was completely absurd.  How could anyone do a poo and then happily sit on top of it for 30 minutes?  His poo habits began to shit me even more.

One morning as I got in the car after our morning walk I went pale with fucking dread.  I could smell poo.   Either Kevin or Rosie had rolled in shit.   “Everyone! Windows down!” I screamed in a frenzy as I did a wild u-turn leaving skid marks in Derby Street and speeding off as fast as I could manage it.  I lived a few minutes from the dog park and I had tried having the dogs chase after the car on previous poo incidents. It had been a disaster when some shit covered, crazed Sheep dog almost knocked over a little old lady taking an early morning stroll.   Then I was abused by another man who witnessed the debacle for being an idiot.  He did not know how much shit I was dealing with.

The shit covered dogs were in the car with us as we sped down Wood Street, all three of us with our heads sticking out the windows, dry retching and heaving with disgust.    The kids have inherited my revulsion of poo.  As soon as we got home both dogs were tied up and hosed down by Archie and Rissie. They knew there was no way I was capable of  going near a poo covered dog.  I don’t have time for that shit.

I often wonder if my life will always be a circus.    Sometimes shit just happens.


(This post originally appeared on My Notes from New England)

About the author: Lara Flanagan is a photo taking, food obsessed, foul mouthed, constantly writing and country-loving Mamma. She is the author of the blog My Notes from New England where she shares her stories.  She is on the constant hunt for taste, colour, flavour and love with lashings of food for the soul.

Her blog covers everything from dealing with life in the country as a single mum city-chic to being diagnosed with MS to travelling the world with twins armed only with a laptop and her camera.  My Notes from New England is all about the life she shares with her twins and her two mad dogs.  The good, the bad, the funny, the sad and the downright fucking ugly.

Follow her on: http://mynotesfromnewengland.com/, Instagram: @mynotesfromnewengland, Facebook, and Twitter


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