Poop Happens

The MotherHood: Vulnerable Stories from Powerful Mothers

Poop Happens

Written by Stephanie Kilpatrick

Poop happens. Especially to moms. Things can get rough in the diaper trenches and even rougher in the online ones. The cyber world of inexperienced experts is full of people content to compare poop, fling it, or stick up their nose and judge you for it. Being a mom is hard enough without all that. When you feel buried, tuning out the haters and grabbing the lifeline of those who care and support you, is imperative. So when you have hard stuff to deal with, take a deep breath, find your community, and get to work. And know that it will get better.

I’m a mom of three boys who are all just under two years apart. In their younger years, I felt like a zookeeper in the monkey exhibit. Someone was always jumping, climbing, throwing, breaking, roughhousing or making a giant mess. They figured out how to get through every baby lock we tried. They had no fear and endless energy. Words came out of my mouth in phrases I’d never imagined stringing together— “Stop fishing behind the TV,” “Don’t lick the bird,” “Why are you tied to the doorknob?” “Don’t drink your orange juice with your fingers.” I spent most of my sleep-deprived, waking hours in a constant state of frantic awareness—splitting my attention between the three of them to prevent their untimely deaths. I remember thinking how heroic I was, literally saving lives every day. I told myself their strong wills and problem-solving skills would make them successful adults. But I was secretly jealous of my friends that had kids that would sit still for books or coloring. I was exhausted.

Then came the day when the naptimes of my one-year-old and three-year-old aligned, leaving me two glorious, glorious hours of sanity. I could breathe. I should have napped too, but usually did chores—there was always a pile. Still, being able to focus on just one thing was, in a way, relaxing. At least it was. Until the poop hit the fan—or in this case, the wall.

I had just finished eating some lunch when I heard my one-year-old making noise. Recharged and refreshed from the life-line of naptime, I headed upstairs to hug my beautiful baby. I opened the door to a scene from a horror movie. Brown streaks. Stinky brown clumps. Everywhere. Poop was smeared into the crevices of the crib, on the sheets, on the wall, flicked onto the carpet… It looked like a port-a-potty had exploded in the nursery. And there, in the middle of the crib stood a grinning, diaperless, poopy-handed baby—overjoyed with his creation.

I stared, too shocked to do anything. Gross! Why would he do this? This was going to take forever to clean up. Why did this have to happen when my husband was at work and couldn’t help me? The older two boys had never done this. After pushing through my thoughts, and gritting my teeth at reality, I snapped a picture. The husband had to see. Words wouldn’t be enough. Then, I took a deep breath, trying not to gag at the stench of the room, and made my way in. Lifting the baby like an active bomb, I carried the poop artist to the bathtub, sprayed off the chunks with the showerhead, then let him soak in some warm, soapy water. While he played in the tub, I got to work. When my three-year-old woke up from his nap in the room next door, he came out, assessed the situation, and looked rightfully disgusted—thank goodness. I plunked him in front of a movie and continued the back and forth from the bathroom to the crime scene until it was clean. Poop happened and I’d dealt with it. What a horrible memory that would make a great story someday.

Later, we laughed. My husband commiserated with me. We joked about showing the picture of our curly-haired baby, surrounded by his poop masterpiece, to his future wife. And life went on. For a day.

The following afternoon I opened the door expecting to find a happily rested baby, smiling and cooing, maybe playing with his crib toy . . . no. It was Number Two: Part Two. The sequel is usually worse than the original, and this was no exception. This time, once he’d finished with his crib, he’d climbed out, presumably in search of a fresh canvas. He smeared the windows, heater vents, furniture and walls. An artist creating a room-sized mural with the only medium at his disposal. I whimpered, holding back tears at the disgusting amount of cleaning in front of me. After snapping another photo, I slumped my shoulders and got to work.

After a few days of this, I realized we were in a phase. It was going to keep happening. Our little Poopcasso was in his brown period. I couldn’t do this day after day. I needed help. I asked social media, friends, and family for suggestions. While some comments, of course the online ones, criticized my parenting, most were kind and helpful. I tried using duct tape on the diaper tabs to keep him from opening them. That didn’t work. He either managed to get it off, or would reach through the leg to get his art supplies. I tried cutting feet off of footy-pajamas and putting them on backwards so he couldn’t unzip them. Somehow, he always managed to Houdini his way out of them. (This was in the days before baby video surveillance, so it’s still a mystery to me.) I tried getting in as soon as he was awake, before he had time to do anything, but he was quiet and sneaky, and this only worked on a couple occasions. We let him do finger paints during the day, thinking that would be enough. Nope. Naptime was no longer a refuge. It was an anxiety-inducing waiting game to see if this would be the time an idea worked. Weeks of this living nightmare was slowly smooshing my soul into a dirty diaper headed for the pail. My only rays of sunshine were on the weekends, when my husband was home and got his turn at it.

I continued to keep people apprised of the poop saga, hoping someone would have an idea that worked. One day someone suggested cleaning him off in a cold shower. “If he’s playing in poop then having a fun-filled bath time afterward, he isn’t motivated to change anything. Maybe if the clean-up protocol isn’t all that enjoyable, it’ll stop.” Of course the haters, none of whom had ever dealt with this, thought cold water was tantamount to child abuse, and further criticized me and the things I’d tried. While I attempted to ignore the negative comments, it was hurtful. I was doing the best I could, and reaching out for help, but the judgmental responses, though few, made me doubt myself as a mom. I started to second-guess and overthink everything. But, you can’t live like that very long before going crazy, so instead I just stopped sharing as much. Aside from a few trusted friends, I stopped reaching out to a community that should have been a source of support. If I didn’t mention it, then there wouldn’t be anything for anyone to criticize.

Out of other options, I decided to try the cold water idea. After the next poop incident, I held the dimpled kid in the shower and let cold water spray off the crappy body paint. He squirmed and protested, but the poop had to come off. Once he was clean, I helped him out to dry off and dress, and there was no fun bath time. The next day, same thing. Third day… no poop! That was it! The key had been a couple cold showers, and he was over it. I could come back to the normal realm of humans who didn’t wander a fecal wasteland. And he didn’t even get hypothermia or PTSD. While I may have a little PTSD from this experience, our youngest turned out just fine, and never created another poop masterpiece.

Being a mom is hard. I always wanted people with older kids to tell me it gets better, and they’d say things like “No it gets harder!” or “It doesn’t get better, just different.” That’s not what you say to someone barely staying afloat, people. It does get better, okay? Kids learn to wipe their bums, stop ignorantly trying to kill themselves on a daily basis, and gain reasonable thinking skills. But before that, it can feel like a never-ending pit of doom at times. There will be poop you have to deal with, literally or figuratively. But you’re not alone. While there may be people pinching their noses and looking down on you as you’re wading through excrement, or others happily flinging more poop your way, they don’t matter. The voices that matter are those trying to help. Those who uplift and strengthen you as a mother. I eventually realized that, and between the ‘unfriend’ button and learning not to give two poops about those comments, I found a balance between community and sanity. And thankfully, my kids have grown and now manage their bodily functions on their own. The only poop of theirs I have to deal with these days are all their potty jokes. See? I told you it gets better.

Besides writing, Stephanie has worked as an RN, stay-at-home Mom, and is currently working on a degree in English from BYU. She's president of her SCBWI and ANWA writer's association chapters. She loves writing conferences, martial arts, reading and hanging out with her husband and three boys. She also loves to laugh, and you can laugh along with her on YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram @Literary_Laughs.