Dear Mr. Poopie,
Oh how I bet you are just sitting on your high chamber pot right now, looking down at me, laughing at how bad you got me today. Ok, I’ll admit since I had meticulously cleaned the diaper eruption and scrubbed and scrubbed my hands, I had NO idea where the lingering smell was coming from. It didn’t appear to be on Baby boy’s pants, Toddler-girl’s hands, the couch, the rug, the blanket, or the Barbie head, even though you had me sniffing crevices for poo like a Customs Labrador searching for cocaine.
I bet as I left the scene of the crime to get my mind off of you and refresh my palate with a cup of fresh fruit topped with cottage cheese, you were in hysterics: How long would it take me to discover that you were waiting for me, ever so patiently in a ruthless game of hide and seek? So I stood there eating, not sitting because I was determined to find you, when to my bewilderment I realized I was only detecting your ever-so-vile aroma as I lifted the spoon to my mouth. YES, it was then to my utter disgust and HORROR that I beheld a little preemie poopie—with its squinting little slitted eyes gazing at me from in between the cozy knuckle creases of all places—my middle finger!
Did you gasp with delight as I dropped my spoon, nearly gagging, and ran to the sink to scrub the skin off my fingers at temperatures so hot it nearly melted my bones for the second, then third, and forth time! It was then I realized your little bambino was attempting to take a permanent residence on my finger! Didn’t you get the memo: fingers are a NO POOP ZONE!—I wonder if Oprah would be willing to take up this cause in addition to the No Phone Zone. Perhaps he failed to consult with Mr. Gummy Bear who could have warned him of my eviction policy.
Well, guess what, I researched on Google how to get that poopie smell off the fingers: the nurses have already figured it out. Survey says lemon juice, toothpaste, a metal spoon, and shaving cream are your worst enemies. Guess what? My fingers are so minty I could brush my teeth with them. Bye Bye, Preemie poopie. Buh Bye.
Fighting you till the end,
P.S. Tell your buddy Mr. Diarrhea to leave my friend Kate alone! I'm warning you, the lyrics of your favorite song: "When you're walking down the hall and you see it on the wall ..." are about to be rewritten!
Posted by Laura