The Poo Chronicles (feat. The Fall of Dignity)

Once upon a time, I was delicate.

Polite.

Private.

The kind of woman who would blush so hard at the word bowel that it could power a small regional hospital. If a doctor ever asked about my bowel motions, I’d think, What a grotesque and humiliating question to ask another human being.

Oh, sweet summer child.

How little I knew.

Because now?

Poo is not just part of my life — it’s a core operational metric.

My days begin and end with faecal updates:

Has Nathaniel pooed?

Has Westley pooed?

Has Jackson (the Rottweiler) pooed?

Has Westley stepped in Jackson’s poo?

Did anyone emotionally recover from that?

It’s not shocking anymore.

It’s data.

Poo is a KPI.

Poo is a handover.

Poo is a performance review.

Every weekday morning, I deliver the boys to Mum and present what can only be described as a Poop Performance Report:

“This one’s gone.

This one hasn’t.

That one was a bit runny.

Yesterday’s was green but I think it’s fine.

If this one doesn’t go by 2pm, give him the syrup.

And for the love of God, make sure they both drink water because I cannot emotionally survive last Tuesday again.”

No one sees the systems.

They only notice when they fail.

Which brings us to Westley’s contribution.

Every morning, one of his first self-appointed duties is to conduct a full yard inspection. He patrols like a tiny ranger, pointing out every single poo with military precision:

“There one.”

“There another one.”

“Big one, Mum.”

“Two together.”

Sometimes — for reasons known only to him and whatever dark forest spirit he answers to — he flags the piles with little sticks or rocks, like he’s marking landmarks.

“So Mum doesn't miss it.” he tells himself, planting another stake into a particularly aggressive pile.

If a poop is too revolting to scoop, I must then bury it with the shovel. I feel like some kind of suburban exorcist, while Westley supervises with deep professional interest.

And as if that wasn’t enough…

Westley also has an alarming gift:

he can poo on demand.

Two minutes before a Zoom call?

Emergency poo.

Heels on, car ready, keys in hand?

Immediate squat.

Which brings us to The Incident.

One warm afternoon, the sprinkler was on.

The boys were laughing.

Westley decided clothes were optional.

Fine. It was summer. We were free.

I was almost relaxing.

Then Westley toddled up beside my beautiful white deck chair, smiled at me with complete innocence…and squatted.

Right there.

Confident.

Unapologetic.

Time stopped.

Somewhere, a bird cried.

I almost spat out my drink in shock.

I leapt up to grab the hose, attempting a fast solution —

which is when I turned and saw Jackson enthusiastically eating the evidence, tail wagging like he’d just found treasure.

And Nathaniel?

Laughing so hard he collapsed, clutching his stomach like he might be the next to add to the situation.

For half a second, I stood there watching it all like I was outside myself — the hose, the dog, the naked toddler, the horrified adult brain — and thought, This can’t possibly be my actual life.

And then I picked up the hose and got on with it.

I sighed.

I rinsed.

I scooped.

I buried.

I disinfected.

I carried on.

That’s when I knew:

dignity had officially left the chat.

The woman who once blushed at medical forms now manages stool consistency like a supply chain.

Motherhood didn’t just remove my privacy — it rewired my entire operating system.

You stop chasing perfection.

You start celebrating function.

Everyone fed.

Mostly clean.

Hopefully pooing in the correct postcode.

I used to measure my worth in appearance and titles. Now, I measure it in survival, systems, and whether everyone made it through the day mostly clean.

I don’t know when it happened. But somewhere along the way, I became someone who can handle things.

And honestly?

There is something deeply comforting in knowing that even when everything else feels uncertain…someone, somewhere in this house, is at least pooing on schedule.

This is the version of me that exists now - less delicate, more capable, and far steadier than I ever imagined I’d need to be.

Thanks, in no small part, to poo.