Passages

I discovered, after a stimulating telephone conversation, that the passage of time - indeed, the passage of life is measured not in days. Not in seasons, or years or even generations. It's measured in poop.

You know I'm right.

For those of us who are parents, many of us mark our entry into the real grown-up world as the time we obsessed over the amount, color, frequency, consistency and, uhm, bouquet of our first child's poops.

Then there's the day we stop what we're doing to pick up the phone and call some unsuspecting friend or relative to announce, "IN THE POTTY! He SURE DID!"

Fast forward a through the occasional stomach virus and annual halloween-candy-induced constipation.

We've become middle aged when any conversation with either of our parents includes comparing the relative benefits of stimulant- versus non-stimulant laxatives, inflatable donuts and "regularity."

The "end" will be near, so to speak, when our own bodily functions dominate our conversations with our unsuspecting offspring: "Did you see that Sam's has Member's Mark Bulk-Forming Laxative in 20-pound bags? You know your father and I get a little backed-up from time to time. This morning was better though, and praise the Lord for that, Darlin', because ever since my hemorrhoid surgery I've been a lot more sensitive. But I swear that if your daddy doesn't change his diet, I'm going to have to replace the wall paper in the powder room, and I can't even get him to light a match, for cryin' out Pete! I mean, we've got a can of neutralizer, but I'm wondering if they make 'terminator'."

Please pass the Charmin.