"P" is for Poop

Today's post is brought to you by the letter "P".

Words that start with the letter "P" are: pears, patience, and poop. And did I mention poop???

Never in all my days did I foresee that I would become a blossoming expert on excrement. They don't tell you these things when you're a young girl, adore babies, and stalk tired young mothers after church to see if you could hold their precious ones. You become a favored young person because you lighten their load, and in return, they spare you the dark secret that might deter you from producing your own little pooping hobbits. This would be the fact that dealing with poop is a requirement of motherhood.

While I don't feel very young anymore, I am a "young mother". As such, I have experienced the baptism of a young mother. Water would be nice, and even preferable, but when you've got babies, you're immersed in milk, and poop. Lots of it. Add 2 cats and a dozen chickens to the mix, and you're up to your ears in it. Some tools of the trade are wipes, while other days require a shovel.

When Olivia was younger, she randomly found it necessary to remove her diaper during nap time, and silently color her crib. I would go about my brief time of freedom, cleaning house, or trying to rest myself, blissfully unaware of the biohazard artistry going on in the other room. That was until the smell would eek under the doorway, or she would begin to sing while she painted, alerting me that something was very, stinkily wrong. Bath first, toys to occupy the now clean child, then crib detoxifying. Some days were worse than others depending on the previous day's diet. Yuck.

It's also really fun when you have a baby and they pull the party trick of peeing or pooping on your clothing, while magically managing to not leave a trace of it in their diaper. Yes, this is why a prepared Mama will have a change of clothes for herself handy. Some mothers may not have the energy to remember such luxuries as this, and must go about in public with milk stains, pee, or poo smeared in the most obvious places. This eventually becomes a new normal, she refuses to change her shirt because it'll just happen again on the next one, and that evening's shower is a greatly anticipated, sacred time.

Recent extreme diaper rashes have had me delve into the realm of poop detective. A rash presents itself, and may worsen over the course of a couple of days. I examine the remains, hoping for clues as to what items need to be restricted from the menu. My younger self would have been appalled at the lengths I now go to in order to figure out how to make my child better. I didn't know it then, but I certainly know it now...this is just part of the job description. Since some messes are worse to deal with than others, my husband reminds me that these things are helping me "grow on the inside".

Before Andrew and I married, I held jobs that involved giving tours, cooking, and teaching. I felt like I had built a pretty decent resume, and for the most part, really enjoyed what I did. On this side of marriage and children, I have my dream job, but still struggle with the temptation than what I do doesn't add up to much. Andrew usually asks me how our day went, and what I did. My most recent, becoming standard answer is "I fed mouths and wiped butts." At this early point in my mothering, it can be hard to see the forest from the trees. Some days it seems that all I do is clean up tiny (and some not so tiny!) people's messes, but the truth is that it's not always going to be like this. These little people are growing up. I can see it happening, and at an alarming rate. We'll put Olivia to bed and the next morning she has quite obviously grown. Those 2T clothes aren't shrinking, she's just growing. Emma is over a month old now, is smiling and "talking" to us, and it's all happening so quickly. They are changing, learning, and growing up. This is a train that cannot be stopped.

So, while right now I'm spending an inordinate amount of time making food, feeding people, cleaning up after those meals, and then dealing with what comes after, I'm purposing to enjoy it. Time is going by so quickly, and though it seems menial, what I do is making a difference for my family. There will come a day when my girls won't need Mommy as much as they do now. This thought makes me excited, and sad all at the same time. My plan is to enjoy this time while it lasts, blog about poop so that I can laugh about this current reality, and be a secret keeper for those young ladies who like to hold my baby. I do this because I don't want to scare them off, and because one day they'll likely enjoy this time as much as I am. Poop and all.

P.S. I can also keep smiling because one day I'll only have to wipe my own butt. ;)

Karen

Olivia was happily playing in her room, until she came across a little stranger she discovered at the bottom of her toy basket. She had found a long forgotten cloth dolly that had never received much attention. With chickens and new toys from Christmas having recently been given proper names, something about this friend bothered Olivia deeply. This doll didn't have a name.

Running to me in a panic, Olivia called out "Mommy! Help! Help!". A bit confused about what could be wrong, I reached out to her as she bolted into the living room. With the doll in tow, she cried out once again for my help, and shoved it into my hands. I asked her what was wrong, and with sad eyes, she looked at the doll, then back at me, and cried: "Mommy! What's her naaaame?!" The way she asked that question tugged at my heart. She knew we hadn't named this doll, which meant that it didn't belong. In her eyes, it was lost.

Creativity failed me, so I threw out the first name that popped into my head: "Karen. The doll's name is Karen." Olivia's eyes lit up, and she quickly retrieved the doll from my hands. She hugged it and with joy in her voice, declared: "Your name is Karen! I am Olivia. I love you, Karen. You are my friend, Karen. It's gonna be okay, Karen..." As if to reassure little lost Karen, Olivia inserted her name into as many sentences as possible before traipsing back to her bedroom.

I sat down, a bit bewildered at what has just taken place. The scene caused me to think about the importance of names, and especially knowing who we are. Even at two and a half, Olivia knew that something was gravely wrong for a dolly of hers to be without a name. There are many stuffed animals and dolls under Olivia's care, but until that point, they were all loved, accounted for, and known. With a name, Karen was instantly accepted into Olivia's play-world family. She had a home, she had friends, and she belonged.

In comparison, how beautiful it is to belong to the Lord. We are no longer scraping around in darkness, lost, hopeless, and unknown. To know Christ is to become children of the Almighty, adopted into His family, loved and cared for, brought into communion with Him. He gives us a new identity; one that supersedes any name or title we ever held, or may have in the future. We are His and we belong.

Though my current mission field doesn't have me out and about as much as it used to, I'm still challenged to keep my eyes open for any Karens I may encounter. Maybe it's the clerk ringing up my groceries, or someone who admires my baby as I'm running errands...he or she may not have a name yet. Lord willing, I can point them to the One Who gives eternal names, and identities. To the One who in a sense, pulls us up from the forgotten bottom of the toy basket, and gives us a home, for no other reason that His good pleasure, and glory.