cat pooh makes you think

Ask any two year old you know and they will tell you, “poopie” is the funniest word in the English dictionary. Not one to condone potty talk (well, you know, usually), I know that the merest utterance of this word would instantaneously cause a riot of mirth to erupt from my two and five year old, while my ten year old would smile and, most likely, taking my cue, run with it.

I’m staring down at the yuckiest smear of cat pooh you have ever seen. “God” I think to myself, “I hope the other end of that isn’t on my shoe.” It is amazing how pooh fluctuates from almost benign to horrible.

Baby poop is cute. A two year old pooping in her panties because she didn’t make it to the toilet on time can be traumatic for everyone, and cat poop on the laundry room floor is nauseating at best.

I suppose there is something to wading around in a mess that is, at least familiar, that makes it manageable. Of course baby poop is a far cry from two-year-old poop. I didn’t even realize it until J. pointed it out to me one day shortly after the baby had been born. I suppose the gradually worsening state of the diaper situation had desensitized me to the fact that my child’s diapers were, well, gross and in comparison to a newborn the urgency to potty train became apparent.

I suppose this is how I operate, wallowing in my own crapulence until I discover by a light of some more favorable comparison that the muck I am up to my arms in isn’t just unfortunate or inconvenient, it is horrid. I like to think that I am accepting of my own faults, warts and all, but in truth I don’t think I always see them for what they are. “Those aren’t warts, they are age spots, marks of wisdom and experience.” After all, does anyone look to a situation that is worse and think “Wow! My stuff really stinks!” Or do we instead look in wonder at the awful mess that is before us and unbeknownst to our own situation; thank our lucky stars that this is not ours? I suspect that I love of myself for who I am because I am blind to my character defects. Would I be more loving of myself if I could see my defects for what they truly are? Or would the shame of them nauseate me like so much cat pooh on the floor?

Cat pooh makes you think.

I suppose the worst kind of character defects are those that disrupt our lives, the cat poop on the floor, that stops everything until the mess has been dealt with. Only slightly less disturbing is the two year old variety. Unpleasant to be sure, and just as quickly tackled, but without that soul-scarring trauma that make you feel unclean all over.

No, I suspect that most of our character defects are of the baby poop variety, unpleasant, but manageable. The kind that daily meditation and a little soul searching can clean like as many wet wipes. That, at least is comforting, that I am not some level 9 biohazard walking around waiting for someone to step in me. Comforting because in a way my character defects are a barometer of my relationship to the world, and more importantly, to my spiritual well being. They let me know both where I am at, and where I need to go next, that is, as long as I am willing.