Tonight I Banned Talking About Poo

Living with a six (almost seven) year old and a four year old, I hear a lot of poo talk. 


All. Flipping. Day. Long.


And you know, it can really wear a girl out. 


I am sick of poo talk.


Poo jokes? I am sick of them too.

Tiny thinks anything with a punchline of poo poo is going to elicit giggles. It might from her, but I'm not laughing. 


Tonight they were reading a book together, and every second word was poo. And you know, I just put a blanket ban on poo talk. 


I do not want to discuss poo. With you, or without you. Poo is poo is poo. It's what we do. I do not need to talk about it, thank you.


If you have a poo frenzy on your hands (well not literally I hope), you should get this book. We have the pop-up poo version. It is very funny. Well it was until Tiny tore out all the pop-up bits. 

Toilet Humour

It's poop de jour in our house for toilet humour.

Maybe it is in your home too, and you need a jolly good laff too.

via my friend Stephen.

PS - Hopefully that commenter can come back and say - what are you 12? Yes. +20.

Day 2:: Up In Flames

Day 2 is up in flames. I've fallen off the wagon without being on the wagon. But I have a disclaimer.

I was rushing home for dinner, went to the supermarket after picking up some wine, slipped over on the supermarket floor, hurt my hands and knees, got the milk, felt teary, went to the register where I had to listen to the checkout chick rave on and on about banana chillis, and how she couldn't scan them, and then re-scan them, oh and then scan them again. I just wanted to get home, the woman in front of me told me my wine was leaking, I said, yes I know, look down, I'm covered in wine - there's a puddle of wine. Take the wine bottle over to the bin, just as it explodes all over me, walk back to the register to get the milk - but go past customer service to ask them if they could clean up the mess, burst into tears, stand at the register while this check out chick is still banging on about bananas chillis and the fact that she's been sneezing and coughing. I'm covered in wine. I'm blubbering at the counter. And all she can say is: "Do you want a bag?" Well of course I want a damn bag, there's clearly too much to carry.

Pay. Leave. Hurt.

But this man has 82 Julia Roberts tattoos. That's something. Right?