From that first black tar poopy diaper, to the all-out blow out, we’ve have seen it all. At some point our interactions with poop stop phasing us and become the new normal. Maybe the time my first daughter pooped directly into my hand was the moment I ran out of f*cks. Or was it honing my ability to remove a post-explosion onesie from an infant without getting a drop of said poop on their head? In any case, it’s clear, no one can talk sh*t like a mother.
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