Updating will be infrequent in the coming months. I am a tad busy. I have a ton of books to turn over, Gertrude’s first birthday party to prepare for, a week off to take care of the little one, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Orthodox Reflux day to contend with.

When you become a parent it’s like accepting thirteen new jobs. You think to yourself, “Oh, this won’t be bad. There are two of us to split the work.”

You’d be wrong to think that. One child, in ten minutes of play, can create three hours of work to clean up. It defies all laws of science and rationality, but it happens. Reality bends into a new continuum that is not governed by normal laws.

For example. The capacity of one diaper is directly proportional to your location. If you are at home, one diaper can hold the entire contents of a child’s digestive system. If you are out, say at Target, the diaper’s containment system is reduced by three and you are left with a battle with time as you rush to the bathroom, praying that there is a changing table in there.

Now, a child’s waste product is akin to radioactive material. Though you can see where it is, its lingering effects are unseen. History states that you will not be able to keep that crap, no pun intended, in its intended receptacle. It goes everywhere. On its own. It’s a horrible process and you have to fight every instinct to run. Run far away and don a HAZMAT suit.

Kids get better as they grow, but they still remain gross. No matter how much you teach your children, they still have no concept of what is appropriate and what is not.

For example, walking down the stairs with your pants and underwear around your ankles to show that you need a belt? Appropriate to a child, signs of dementia in adults. Sneezing in my cereal? Just an accident to a child, grounds for divorce in an adult. And, to a child, the sneeze cereal is still edible, despite the fact that the force of the nasal expectorant has sent your food flying in all directions.

There is some sort of filter that we gain, as we grow older. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’m glad it develops. For example, I wouldn’t want to sit with my friends at a nice dinner party and have someone leave for several minutes and come back to say, “I made a good poopie!” If he were two years old, I’d be proud of him. Why? I don’t know. But as an adult, I think that sort of biological talent is expected.

What is a parent’s obsession with poopie? Why do we have to rename it anyway? As Billy Shakespeare once said, “A rose by any other name still smells as sweet.” Well, crap by any other name still smells like . . . crap. So why do we insist on giving it such nice little names like poopie, caca, and what not. When the baby lets one go, we say, “Oh! Did you poopie? Oh that’s a good poopie! Look at that. What a good baby!”

Why do we sugar coat it? Why not do what we are thinking inside? “Sweet mother of GOD! What did you eat? That crap is almost purple. Oh my god. I need eight more wipes. I’m feeling dizzy. Stop moving! You’re going to let it loose. Oh my. God, I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done. Please get me through this. Gag. These wipes are supposed to wipe, not spread! I need gloves. HOLY . . . what is THAT? That’s not healthy!”