Never in my life have I wished for anything more (okay, you got me - that's not entirely true - it's just how I feel right now)...
So, I have my morning bowl of fiber-y cereal, so as to keep myself regular. Then I add on a chewy and delicious, gas-inducing Fiber One bar. Two minutes later, it's time to drop the kids off at the pool, if you know what I'm sayin'.
I decide to go grab a new magazine and take my sweet time. My little one is happily entertaining herself in the Pack 'n Play - there should be no issues here.
I get five of my ten toes out the door and screaming ensues. I remember, "Oh yes, we're in the phase where she blows a gasket if I leave the room." But, cry she must. This mama's gotta poop.
I get my magazine, sit down, and wish to high heaven that I could just read the latest issue of Parenting -- seriously -- 5 pages is all I ask for. Is that so much?! Apparently, it is.
So, I spend my crapadoodle doo time with the door open so that I can talk to my child in the sing-songy voice that she loves so much, just so I don't have to hear constant screaming.
A dear friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) has two kids of her own. Not long ago she was telling me that gone are the days of the "Leisurely Crap." No more dawdling on the pot. No more catching up on the bathroom reading. No more private time.
Unfortunately, due to the obscene amount of fiber I choose to have in my diet, my craps are always in the morning (unless I mistakenly consume 2 or more Fiber One bars - then I'm in for it all the live long day...) - when my husband is conveniently at work. This is unfortunate because, were he home during my oh-so-scheduled poops, I could enjoy a leisurely crap.
So, how do I deal? I have fake poops. Yep, fake poops.
He gets home - I suddenly have to crap. Oh, and it takes me a good 20 minutes, too. What's he gonna do? Tell me to hurry it up? I think not. So, I sit there on the crapper and read my magazine, pretending to poop. Hey, you do whatcha gotta do to get a little piece and quiet, and if it means faking a poop, then so be it.
Embrace your inner fake pooper, ladies!