My Son Ate Goose Poop

No – that statement is false.  Saying Bunder ate goose poop implies he picked up a piece of goose poop and put it in his mouth.  If you know anything about goose poop, you know the consistency of said poop is not conducive to picking up and placing in one’s mouth.   

The correct statement should read, “My son kneeled down on his little hands and knees, submerged his body in goose feces, and licked goose poop off the ground.”   

If you’re still reading, I’m amazed!  You must have a strong stomach or a sick fascination with geese.  Either way, I hope you’re as horrified as I was when I witnessed my precious child, my flesh and blood, my perfect angel in poop-licking action.  Please, allow me to explain the depth of my horror. 

Four months before Mister and I began “trying” to conceive Bunder, I gave up caffeine, changed my diet, and attempted to enforce similar restrictions on my loving spouse.  While pregnant with Bunder, I followed the strictest guidelines.  Moms, you’re well aware of the strict guidelines: no lunch meat, no artificial sweeteners, no sushi (ouch), no unpasteurized cheese, and so forth.  (I know, I know, it’s a wonder any of us survived our mothers’ ignorant and blissful pregnancies).   

Not only did I monitor everything going in my mouth, but everything going on my body.  (Okay, I’ve rewritten that sentence four times in an attempt to make it less – well, you know).  What I’m trying to say is I switched lotions and deodorants.  I refused to clean the bathroom (I didn’t want to inhale the fumes from the natural, environmentally safe cleaning chemicals).   I did everything I could possibly think of to create the healthiest, safest incubator for my son… so he could consume goose excrement as a toddler. 

Perhaps you’re thinking, “How could a mother so cautious during pregnancy allow such a catastrophe to occur?”  I don’t want to relive that traumatizing nightmare of a day, but if you insist. 

It’s 10 a.m. on a hot, summer day in Austin, Texas.  If you’ve never visited Texas in the summer, then you’re not familiar with the term “hot”.  Just try to imagine 90 degrees at 10 a.m. with 90 percent humidity.  Okay, you’re still not imagining it as hot as it was.  Are you really trying?  Let’s move on.

I’m eight months pregnant with Kiki.  Bunder and I are at a neighborhood park and splash pad meeting a new moms group.  Everyone seems to be enjoying himself/herself except for me.  I’m sweating bullets in my black muumuu they call a maternity swimsuit, trying not to slip on the wet concrete, worrying about the nearby geese (I’m not a huge fan of birds in general) when Bunder selects a slightly decomposed hamburger wrapper for a midmorning snack.  (He won’t eat green beans, but he’ll eat garbage).  I swoop in just in time to intercept the trash.  I congratulate myself for my quick reflexes and scan the area for a trashcan.  Suddenly, I hear a scream of terror coming from my mouth.  Bunder is in the aforementioned poop-licking situation.  I pick him up covering my own arms and torso with goose feces and turn to the mothers present in shock, “He ate goose poop!  Help!” 

Do you know what those kind, lovely women said?

“It happens.”

What?  This is no time for a bumper sticker or country song!  My son consumed goose excrement!

Do you know what my darling husband said when I recounted the ordeal to him?  It’s even worse!  He said, “Wait until he gets stitches for the first time.” 

What?  I told him, “No way!  Bunder will NEVER get stitches!  I’m barely surviving goose poop – let alone blood and cuts and stitches!”

He said, “He’ll probably break a bone at some point, too.” 

I fainted.  Well, I didn’t actually faint, but I wanted to.  The thought of my perfect baby breaking a bone was really too much for me to bear.  I hadn’t thought of this before.  I always believed I would protect him from harm, watch over him, smother him – you know, what every good mother does.  This concept rattled me.  I had not prepared myself for a world where my son could eat goose poop and possibly break bones. 

After much reflection, I realize the other moms weren’t making light of the situation.  They were letting me in on a well-known parenting mantra, “It happens.”  In this crazy world they call motherhood, you name it, it happens.  Goose poop is just the beginning.