One Upside of Parenthood: A Stronger Stomach

Things that would have disgusted me a year ago don't faze me anymore

The other morning, after a dismal night of sleep, I was roused from my early morning half-slumber by my husband, yelling about the baby’s poop from the changing table we have set up in the next room over.

It wasn’t a yell of dismay, as most shouts about poop are, under normal circumstances, but rather a shout of wonder. Pride, almost.

I won’t go into further details about the reason he was shouting; one day Juniper will be old enough to read this and this could be embarrassed by it. Suffice to say, Josh was yelling a description of poop, and asked me if I wanted to come into the other room and see.

No, reader, I did not want to bear witness to that particular baby shit, so I stayed in bed. But the fact that it even occurred to Josh to register poop as some kind of milestone to be witnessed reminded me just how far the needle has moved when it comes to my tolerance for things that are disgusting.

A year ago we won a day-use permit in the lottery to climb Mt. Whitney. (I was four months pregnant, but my doctor said that it was fine, so we went for it.) The permit-only section of the hike is pack in, pack out, which means that there are no toilets or garbage receptacles, and that hikers are to leave no trash or trace. Which also meant that we would be expected to clean up our own solid waste and carry it with us in a bag in our packs like little scatological keepsakes.

I went to REI before we left town for our trek and purchased a couple of “toilet kits”-- which included pointy little shovels for collecting human waste and a system of bags designed to safely store them for transport, and as I stood there comparing little shovels and bags, the reality of what “pack out” meant sunk in. And I gagged.

The idea of carrying human poop around for hours and hours was almost too disgusting to stomach. I had to actively not think about it for the rest of the day, and in the lead up to the hike.

Now, carrying triple-bagged excrement around in a backpack wouldn’t even crack the top five grossest things I’ve done this week.

Here’s a partial list of things that One Year Ago me would have gagged about in the middle of an REI store that are now as much a part of my life as getting the mail or blow drying my hair:

I’ve personally sucked the snot out of a sick baby’s nose and felt a sense of relief and accomplishment.

My daughter peed on me while making unbroken eye contact and laughing.

I realized on my way out the door that I had baby vomit in my hair and rather than washing it out I simply pulled my hair back into a bun and thought, I’ll deal with this later.

And also, you know, more poop stuff.

Ability to stomach the disgusting is a necessary parental adaptation. Babies can’t tell you what’s wrong. Things like poop and vomit and snot can tell you what their little undeveloped linguistic centers can’t. When they’re this small, paying attention to it is an important way to stay on top of your baby’s overall health. And besides, somebody has to clean them up. They can’t just go around covered in their own bodily fluids.

I've heard of parents achieving Olympian feats of overcoming the gag reflex. Mothers catching vomit in their bare hands. Dads changing blowout diapers in rest stop bathrooms after they'd run out of baby wipes. Discovering bodily fluids hidden in corners. Managing injuries too gnarly to be depicted on network TV, without batting an eye.

Josh says his newfound ability to encounter the disgusting without being fazed by it feels a little bit like a super power. I think it feels like a mental illness. Maybe it’s a little of both.

Screenshot from Anchorman/ DreamWorks Pictures