Either my dad is profoundly psychic or he in fact cursed me. He gave me the significant nickname of “Pooh”. It started out as a shortened version of my first name, “Net” went to “Nettie” and then “Nettie Pooh” to just “Pooh”. He addressed letters to me at summer camp and the college dorms with that moniker. It is hard to establish lasting friendships when being teased.
Since the gift of this name, pooh and other varieties of bodily eliminations seem to be a constant part of my life. The first memorable experience was when I was 6 or 7 and my mom left me with some neighbors. There was the usual amount of neighborhood kids (mostly boys) playing in the back yard. Our favorite game was seeing who could make the most tremendous fart. Since being the one of the only girls I really had to out do myself. I was sitting on the swing and I felt the most magnificent fart coming on. Pretty excited about this I made a final push to make a great noise; well you can imagine what came out instead. It was most impressive for a little fart like me; even the mom was impressed (and grossed out).
My sister was born a couple of months later. I know my mom took care of her every need, but it sure seemed like I changed an awful lot of poopy diapers. As she was growing up it became apparent that either she was really lazy or very interested in life going on around her – meaning she would rarely take time to use the facilities. Sometimes I would notice her doing the classic peepee wiggle and rush her to the bathroom but usually not. She also did not like to be yelled at by my mom or dad, so she took to throwing her dirties under her bed. This bed was in a room that used to be a closet – really. The house we bought used to belong at one point to both of the neighbors on either side of us. One of these families remodeled the back bathroom with a handicapped shower because the mom had had polio and was crippled. This shower was as long as the bathroom, maybe 12 to 15 feet and inside were hand rails so she could move up to the shower head. Well this was a dream shower for me. I am surprised that I did not fall and crack my head on the tile with all the gymnastics and imaginative plays I put on in there. (Our water bill must have been huge). Anyway, my dad tore out the shower to make the closet into a very small bedroom for you know who, who would toss her very gross underwear under her bed and I would help her clean it out when the smell got too bad and my dad started yelling.
Moving on to current years, I am a special Ed teacher. My students are working on skills like toileting and eating. Most of them can’t even blow their nose but that is another story altogether. So lately I am doing the “you went peepee on the potty” dance or whooping it up if a poop actually lands in the toilet. 3 weeks ago there was a vomit fest and a puke o rama happening. I would really hate to be a janitor. I did my share of cleaning up the barf though. The following week was the diarrhea marathon in which 2 of my students participated. One kid actually blew up – the smell was so bad I needed to run away. I was glad that the dad happened to be picking up his son early. The teacher who shares my room was throwing open all the doors and windows and spraying the room with disinfectant – he is really germ phobic – I was howling!!!! (it was pretty bad though).
To end this story of elimination I want to add that even as a kid (besides the fart/poop story) I have had trouble with peeing. If I laughed hard I would pee my pants. My so called friends were always trying to make me laugh. Even working at a summer camp in college the director and maintenance man would always try and succeed to make me laugh and then pee my pants. The nearest washing machine was an hour away. Even now if I feel a sneeze coming on I need to cross my legs and squeeze – hard to do when you are sneezing, and then scissor walk to the nearest bathroom and hope that nobody saw. If I have a cold with a horrible hacking cough (which I am still trying to get rid of), all bets are off. So ladies, do your Kagles – they say it makes sex better but I always forget about that and so never do them. Oh, I can’t jump rope any more either – try explaining why to the 3rd grade girl who wants you to jump with her. My last thought is when my daughter and I went into our new ice cream store, “Cold stone creamery” just recently. I was trying to figure out what to get when a feeling of poopiness came over me. A little kid and his dad just went into the bathroom. Shit. What do I do? Do I grab my daughter and hope that I get home in time? Do I try to just squeeze the cheeks and hope it goes away? The kid finally came out – damn- the toilet was plugged. I did a few flushes hoping all would go down. No. Now what to do? Do I grab my daughter and hope? Do I poop in the garbage? Very gross thought. Do I just go in the toilet and hope for the best? That is what I did and it would not flush; big surprise. I just put the lid down, turned off the light and closed the door. I took my ice cream and my daughter and left. I didn’t really like “cold stone” anyway.