Poop

Pretty sure
that’s a whole pound of poo
he left in the shower.
And there’s an empty bottle
of my expensive, velveteen
bodywash,
I thought I had put
out of his reach.
But nope, there’s the stool
to potty train him.
That’s how.
And then there’s all
the bath toys
wallowing in the pits
of feces,
never to be used again
(if I have a say in it,
and I do).

I didn’t even know
that he could keep that much
inside him.
That’s like…
a quarter of his weight
in poo.
Poor kid?
Maybe if I didn’t have
to clean it up.

And he also reached
the water knob-thingy,
and turned it up
to hell heat,
and currently runs about
bright as strawberries,
and not ashamed
of his crime.

Bleach.
Bleach it all.
Bleach my hands,
bleach the floor,
bleach the shower,
bleach my eyes.

If only I could pretend
it was just mud
mixed with playdoh
and…watermelon?

And just as I’m swearing
to never give birth again,
he runs up
in his chubby, diaper glory,
with big blue eyes
(my eyes),
and smiles.

Tiny teeth.
Pink lips.

And hands me my mug.

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