What We Talk About When We Talk About Poop

Leelo is out of school for five weeks. I want him to ease into summer gradually, because a sudden dash of all-mommy-all-the-time has historically not been great for his nerves. So he is hanging out with a new helper today, Therapist M. She is getting used to our son, so we will have more than one (Therapist R) babysitter who actually returns our calls.

Therapist M was referred by Supervisor M, which is pretty much all I needed to know. But TM really is wonderful; she has worked with huge violent boys and considers Leelo a pussycat in comparison. She is bubbly and sweet and kind and groks my son. She thinks he's a doll.

But poop still makes her uncomfortable. "Um, I think he's had an accident!" I hear, from upstairs.

No worries. I run up the stairs and survey the scene. An accident, yes, but definitely low-grade. Wipes will be needed, a change of clothes; but no carpet or hair or shirt or hands was involved. Easy-peasy.

As I help tidy Leelo up, Therapist M remarks with a kind but slightly uncomfortable laugh, "The glamour of motherhood, right?"

"Actually," I said, "This is fine. We were told by top experts that he might never potty train, and many of the kids at his school are still in pullups full-time. The occasional accident is really nothing to complain about."

"Oh!" she said.

"Yeah," I said, with a smile.

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