It was another cargo fart day for Nick. We’ve had way too many of these lately.

He took a dump this morning in private, and before he let me come in to wipe his ass, he mercy-flushed. When I approached him, he explained to me that the piece of poop was “SOOOOO HUUUUUGE” that he just had to flush it. Then he also pointed out the extensive smear marks remaining in the toilet from that turd trying to circle its way down the toilet drain.

Sigh.

When Nick says his poops are huge, he’s not exaggerating. They are, as I’ve said before, man poops. Given their length and diameter, I don’t understand how they can exist in his little torso. It defies anatomical explanation. I hypothesize that there’s a wormhole inside his body that leads to another dimension in which the stools are stored until they’re ready to re-enter earth’s atmosphere and exit his poophole. Maybe the wormhole was formed from all the probiotics and yogurt I feed him.

Anyway, in the course of communicating essential bowel movement facts to me today, Nick stood up, which means his butt squeezed up, which in turn means the messy poo sticking to his ass got smeared all over his cheeks.

Sigh.

I got him to bend over and put his hands on the floor, and I went at it with some wet wipes. For some reason, I had a gag reflex going and my eyes watered. I’m not usually like that, but the smell and mess today were something else.

We both survived and moved on with our day. But about an hour later, Nick spoke as he wandered over to me. “Mommy, I pooped my pants.”

Sigh.

He was walking a little funny, but not like a chimpanzee.

“Is it a lot or a little?”

“Just a little, mommy. I fawted.”

We ran upstairs to the bathtub. Before I could stop him, he shoved his hands into his underwear to fondle his butt.

Sigh.

I tried not to over-react. I managed to pull down his pants without his hands touching me, and sure enough there was a little squirt of the Wet Brown Stuff nestled snuggly in his underpants.

You know the drill. Shower. New clothes. Wash the shit off the old clothes. More gagging and eye-watering. Small load of laundry. Recover.

I keep telling Nick not to fart if he has to give it a good push. I keep telling him to sit on the can before he bears down even the tiniest bit. I keep telling him that an honest fart doesn’t need any help. It has no impulse control. It just blurts naturally. It’s like a bubble popping. It’s like a breeze casually blowing through the trees. It’s like a little kid tripping over a tree root. It’s like, it’s like… It’s like all sorts of things that don’t involve shitting in your pants. He’s not listening to me.

Nothing defeats me like the shit my kids give me.