Before I indulge you with the vile details of my latest fecal adventure, allow me to first explain some details that, at…

Before I indulge you with the vile details of my latest fecal adventure, allow me to first explain some details that, at present, may seem completely irrelevant, but are absolutely imperative to the story I am about to regrettably tell you.

My youngest is roughly 15 months and she copies anything I do if it has to do with her brother, who is about 3 and a half. For example, when he's in the bathroom and I yell down the hallway if he's doing alright, she'll start yelling, too. When he has eczema flare ups, I lather on the coco butter and she "helps".

Anyway, today I was rather constipated. I managed to squeeze out a couple kernels here and there, but there was a behemoth lying in wait within the confines of my clearly less than stellar bowels. So to keep the kids busy, I set out some playdough and some accessories so that they could make cookies and stuff. One of the accessories is this tube thing where you stuff playdough in and push the applicator down so that the dough snakes out.

Yes. That part is important. Bear with me, here.

So I set out the playdough as I was cooking dinner and running back and forth between the kitchen and the toilet because that damn behemoth was tricking me into thinking it had finally descended the dark chambers of my bowels to my exhausted ass hole -- BUT TO NO AVAIL.

And while this is happening, my son insists on showing me the playdough snake out of the applicator thing; teasing me by showing me how easily the playdough shits out of that thing. He even has the gall to say, "look, mama! It's poo poos! It's making a looong poo poo."

Gee, kid, rub it in why dontcha...

And then, it finally hit me: the behemoth wasn't really teasing me. It was the act of squatting on the shitter that was somehow stopping the damn thing from making an exit.

Every. Damn. Time. That I stood up, that monster was ready to reveal itself. And I was stopping it each time. It didn't want to meet a watery end. It wanted to make sure I embarrassed myself by shitting standing upright.

So I grabbed a trash bag, ran to the bathroom and held it beneath my nether regions in the hope that maybe -- JUST MAYBE -- standing up would coax this monstrosity from my body.

Picture it: a grown woman wearing a dress and holding a garbage bag between her legs, face practically turning purple from the strain, hoping she'd get relief.

And just as I felt it snaking out from between my butt cheeks, my daughter saunters into the room with the coco butter and starts "helping" me by sticking tiny slabs of coco butter on my legs.

You see, dear reader, in my rush to test my theory that this behemoth shit would only come out standing up, I'd completely forgotten to close the bathroom door.

Yep.

And for those of you with more than one kid, you know that when one kid comes into the bathroom, the other(s) will follow. My son decides that now is the time to show me the lovely cake he made. But it's not just any cake. Oh no. It's a birthday cake.

While my daughter is applying globs on coco butter, my son is singing happy birthday. And while I say, "oh that's nice," the behemoth poop lands in the bag, making a loud sound.

My son looks at the bag, then looks at me and asks, "uh, what's that, mama?"

"It's mama's shame, hun. That cake looks *pause to strain* delicious! Can you put it on the table so that mama can eat it, later?"

Thankfully, he obliged, his sister followed and I was able to close the door and shit the rest out in the toilet.

Ladies. I would have much rather cut my shit in the toilet. That's all I'm saying.