Warning: The following post is about fifty pounds of poop.
The poop situation around here has gotten a little out of hand. Here's the trouble: Coach and I are the only family members who consistently make deposits in the toilet. Sam and Grace just poop whenever and wherever they want, as if there's some magical poop repository waiting to catch whatever they have to deposit. (Which there is. However, said repositories must be removed and replaced on a fairly frequent basis.) So that still leaves us with the problem of poop disposal. Between the two diaper pails, we cart away a large kitchen-sized trash bag each week. Add in the outdoor deposits left by the four-legged member of our family, bless his fuzzy heart, (This week's load was particularly large because the snow melted. And guess what I found underneath?) and I have trouble hefting the, uh, schload, into the dumpster. Which brings us to our fifty pounds of poop. I'm not kidding. Fifty. Pounds. Of. Poop.*
I'm worried because I've noticed that as the creatures have grown, so has their output. This poop mountain could reach dangerous proportions. So I've decided: The excremental growth stops here.
I'm not sure yet how I'm going to execute this plan. If Malcom were a cat I'd give this a try. But he'd probably just eat the kitty litter. And then ask to be let outside (to poop). Grace is off the hook because they don't make newborn sized pullups. As for Sam, after several months of "pre" potty training, we still haven't made much progress. I don't know why. I checked out a bunch of helpful books from the library (and returned them unread). I let him pick out his own underpants (and then shoved them in his sock drawer**). I bought a potty seat (and left it in the downstairs bathroom we never use). I keep thinking one of these babies would solve all our problems (Who could resist pooping in a potty so cute?), but our lease prohibits major plumbing installations.
So. So this is where you leave all your best potty training tips. I don't care if Sam ends up with excessive compassion for his poopers. Or if he insists on wearing high heels while he does the deed. I just want him out of diapers. Otherwise, I just know I'll end in the emergency room with something broken or torn or ruptured. And on the chart, next to "cause of injury" the smirking intern will write "giant bag of crap."
*I might be kidding a little bit, because I never actually weighed it or anything. But it was really heavy.
**Yesterday Sam actually pulled the package of new underpants out of the drawer and said "Wanna wear these socks today."