On a daily basis, I shovel, scrape, wipe, rinse and, oh yes, sniff out my share of it. Whose is it? Where is it? And the list of culprits continues to grow.
Poop has even been elevated to a term of endearment in our household, as Jake identifies his Richmond-area grandparents based on the kind of tractor they have at home. When he goes to Paul & Shirley's he loves to help clean the horse stalls and scoop up the manure around the pastures. Therefore the tractor they ride around on to accomplish this task has been dubbed: "the poop tractor" and Grandpa Griffey is Poop Pop-Pop because he lets Jake drive.
Lately, I've been trying to look at things differently; since the previous way wasn't taking me anywhere. And the idea of poop as an affectionate tag, rather than the oft muttered derogative form, has me intrigued. Instead of concentrating on the mire that literally dictates my days, I'm trying to see the other sides of it. Poop doesn't start out gross and used properly it fertilizes barren ground. (After all, that's why I wanted chickens.) And honestly, my bathroom and kitchen have probably never been cleaner since we've been potty training Jake and now Tag.
So maybe it is in the training that we are trained ourselves. And even in the poop we find ourselves surrounded by there is opportunity for abundant goodness.
Just hold your nose until you get through it.