I dream of a day when my best stories don’t involve my child’s pooping activities…

…but alas, today is not that day.

Although it’s mostly true that his craziest of poops I do believe are more or less behind us, every once in a while my son catches me off-guard with a doozy that leaves me debating whether to Instagram that sucker for the world to share my pain or merely to bury it deep down inside of that Diaper Genie as quickly as possible with a clothespin over my nose as I think happy thoughts about that time so long ago when the only person’s poop I had to deal with was my own.

The thing I’m noticing about toddler poop is that apparently it changes just as much as the weather in Florida or the direction of the wild raccoon that resides on top of Donald Trump’s head, and that’s where they get you! I can be cruising along having a great day, not even stumbling when I detect a dirty diaper to be changed because “after you’ve done a couple hundred of them, they’re really not all that bad…” only to then have my otherwise delightful world turned promptly upside down with the pull of those two little velcro-like tabs to reveal the horrifying surprise that my boy has been cooking up for me while he’s innocently clapping his hands to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and racing his toy alligator around the room.

If you stop and think about it, which clearly I have to great lengths because that’s how the mind of a humor columnist works, the things that I find in my son’s diaper are kind of like a metaphor for life…

Sometimes it’s not so bad, but when it’s bad … it’s bad!!! 

Sometimes it’s nice and neat like a normal person’s, and sometimes it’s this bizarre consistency that you’ll spend literal moments of your life staring at it, just trying to picture how in the world his little butt produced that kind of monstrosity.

A lot of times you don’t really even notice it until it starts to stink and you’d do anything to not have to deal with it, but you do so anyways because poopy diapers aren’t going to change themselves and they seem to get exponentially worse the longer you leave them.

Then again, one day in the not so distant future he actually will start to take ownership of his own poops and I’ll be freed from their burden upon my life, relocating that Diaper Genie out into the garage to randomly use as a makeshift basketball hoop because I’m not nearly the sportsman to warrant purchasing a real one. Maybe we’ll occasionally play Diaper Genie Basketball together as father and son, and when he blocks one of my shots, I’ll bestow upon him the classic tale of when I used to have to block his hands while changing his nasty diapers so that he couldn’t dip them into his own poop and fling it against the walls.

He’ll laugh and think I’m making it up, and then he’ll eventually have a child of his own and come to find that I very much was not.

And then I’ll laugh because Grandpas don’t change diapers – such is the great circle of life…