Can you talk about poop too much? Probably.
But can “I” talk about poop too much? Never.
At home, it’s a daily topic. Nothing too detailed, just who did and who didn’t. And who needs to. And who should.
And who shouldn’t.
(At least not when another breathing human is home.)
And at work. The two work sisters and I discuss poop. Good poop. Bad poop. Political poop. Celebrity poop. Co-worker poop. It just comes up.
And so poop brings me to pee.
Which is what I spent a good portion of the day in last Sunday.
Long story short, we had out-of-town friends who are really more like out-of-town family stay the weekend with us.
(Devin, my amazingly fabulous friend from high school and her fam, plus a long-time friend and his son.)
And when you come to the Hill Country of Texas on vacation, you float in pee.
Or the Comal River. With lots and lots of people.
(And with people…you have pee.)
You can just bring your cooler with your beer or water or cake icing or frozen adult capri sun drinks or chips or chicken legs and just bobble right on down the river for hours.
(Yep. All that stuff has been in my cooler on the river at one time or another.)
(And if you’ve never gripped a canister of Betty Crocker chocolate icing and spooned a shovel of it down your Dorito-chute while marinating in river water…don’t be judging.)
Here’s me and a crispy chicken leg in all our glory a few years ago:
(I apparently have no shame.)
(Or french fries.)
We loaded up the cars and headed to the river. Just us and about 100,000 other floaters. All of us just one big happy floating family.
(Kinda. Or not so much. Lots of jackasses. Lots. Me not being one this time.)
(Annnnd maybe I did some jackass judging. Along with Devin, my amazingly fantastic friend from high school.)
(Cause you know, that’s what high school girls do and when we’re together we revert right back to high school. We jackass judge. Cause anyone who is acting like a jackass should be judged like a jackass.)
(And because there are some who just should not be in a string bikini. Me being one. And because there are some who just should not be in a speedo-looking flap of cloth. Anybody I know being one.)
After about 2 hours of floating and judging…we swamped it on back to the cars and headed home.
(There’s that word again.)
And then there’s pre-pooped.
Which is what I am here with my little sweet Savannah who’s momma (Devin, my amazingly fantastic friend from high school) says could possibly be my child if she didn’t remember the labor pains so much because the child has my redhair and feels there isn’t enough bling in the world.
(Why, yes. Maybe she IS mine. And having that sweet little southern girl name, Savannah, certainly doesn’t hurt.)
(She’s eating a Pepperoni Lunchable. Another strong clue she could be mine.)
The whole weekend, Savannah and I threatened to paint the all boys toenails bright red while they slept and I taught her to sing-song “that’s creeeeeeeeepy” in a very high-piched voice to most anything we saw that was funny.
Or not funny.
(I’m quite sure it made for a memorable 5-hour drive back home for the rest of the fam.)
Which leads me to this:
When you get a text from friends of well over 30 years saying they’re going to stay at your place…that makes you a part of their family vacation. And a part of their memories. And a part of their “remember when” chats. And a part of their pictures.
And a part of their family.
And you know you must’ve done something right along the way in life to warrant such a feel-good thing.
Because when you’re pooped from being around those who choose to let you be a part of so much love and so many laughs and so much pure goodness and so many family memories, you’ve done something right somewhere.
And that, my friends, is really good poop.