The Intersection Of Poop And Boiling Frogs

I have picked up poop with my bare hands.

More than once.

Now, I tell you this not because I want to ensure that I never have to shake hands again, although, now that I think on it, getting to forego that sort of ritual with anyone who’s read this column might be a sort of lagniappe to this confessional.

No, I tell you that for another reason entirely. But, before we get there, I want you to think back to the first time you ever had to change a poopy diaper on your own. Picture it.

There’s a cranky baby lying supine on the floor between your protectively spread legs, spare change of clothing and extra diapers are set aside, along with as many wet wipes as you could plausibly carry and not have someone start checking the length of your toenails on the off chance that you’re the second coming of the germphobic Howard Hughes. 

Not feeling nearly read enough, I reached out and unsealed the clean white diaper, which was not so clean nor so white on the inside. I found a thickly runny mustard-seeded yellowish brownish substance just everywhere in there. Everywhere. It was possibly the most appalling sight I’d ever seen and I had made it through a theatrical showing of Paul Blart: Mall Cop so I knew from appalling.

Even before I began, I was planning for the amputations to come. Because, you see, I knew that I was going to be cutting off any appendage that so much as came into contact with so much as a molecule of that horrible stuff. I knew that I would never forget the sight of a tiny set of male genetalia covered in the mustard-seeded yellowish brownish goop. I knew I would be waking up screaming for years to come, the memory of that vision flashing over and over behind my eyelids.

And that was even before my oldest son, Sarcasmo, began eating a more substantial diet and started to deposit a — shall we say — more fragrant end product to digestion in his diapers.

It was horrifying. It was scarring.

And yet. . . 

And yet. . . 

I am reminded of the boiling frogs. (Bear with me here. It’s all connected. Promise.) See, there’s an old folk saying about how if you drop a frog into a pot of boiling water, the frog will immediately do anything to escape. (The saying doesn’t mention the degree of anger displayed by the frog nor the necessity of being on the lookout for a vengeance-crazed amphibian, but I guess that goes without saying.) However, if you drop a frog into a pot of cool water and gradually raise the temperature until it’s boiling away just like the first pot, the frog won’t even notice and will happily stay put until boiled up dead.

It’s a nice story because it can become a metaphor for so many important lessons. It’s not true, of course, but it’s still a nice story that way. 

I like to think of it as pointing up the necessity of taking a stand against even the smallest bad thing, because, if you leave it alone, soon there’ll be more bad stuff and more bad stuff, all equally as small, but it begins to add up to a serious problem. And nothing was ever done about what became a horrible problem because we got used to having it around and dealing with it. We can, it seems, get used to anything.

So. I told you that story because I wanted to tell you this one.

I wanted to talk about Bilbao, Spain, home to the Universidád de Duesto, and point out that it does not, in fact, have anything to do with picking up poop with your bare hands. But, then again, does.

See, Zippy the Travelin’ Boy is getting ready to head into his third year at the University of North Carolina Wilmington and he’s decided it’s time to fulfill an admittedly relatively short lifetime’s goal of studying abroad. Thanks to the folks at the International Studies Abroad organization, Zippy the Travelin’ Boy will get a chance to continue pursuing his degree, but switch schools for a year.

Which means that, as of late August, Zippy the Travelin’ Boy will no longer be a less-than-four-hour drive away, but will, instead, be six time zones distant from his mother and me. If or when he needs help, we’ll be a long, long plane ride away from being able to answer the call.

I am, as you might imagine, freaking out just the slightest little bit. That’s a long way away. Sure, he’s got the ISA backstopping him and he’ll be staying with a thoroughly vetted local family during his year, but still. . . He’s there without his parents.

I’m not worried about how he’s going to take it. He’s going to be fine. Not so sure about me, though. I’m not sure I’ll make it through this year without at least one aneurysm exploding deep in my brain. Even now, I’ll find the pressure building as we work toward getting him ready to live in a different country. Panic doesn’t so much set in as drive in behind the wheel of a tricked-out Civic with blacked-out windows, a thumping bass stereo system blaring out the back and a large-bore barrel pointing straight at me from the cracked back window.

And then I’ll think about the first week or so after Sarcasmo went off to Highpoint University. Or away to live in Idaho. Or the weeks after I dropped the newly minted Zippy the College Boy off at UNCW.

I was a wreck, certain the worst was happening and I would be too late to avert disaster.

It wasn’t true, of course, but I felt that way for what seemed like forever.

And then they came home for a holiday break and I found myself counting down the days until they left and went back to their nascent lives as, I’m sure, were they.

I’d become used to the quieter house, to the bigger spaces between moments of contact, to living somewhat separate lives. It didn’t mean I loved them any less, or they me, but we found it was possible to survive massive changes in our cojoined lives.

I suppose I will become used to the idea that Zippy the Travelin’ Boy is six time zones away, living a life mostly without parents and learning each day how to better clean up his own shi– stuff.

The only thing that never changes is that things change. We can either move with the changes or be left behind.

But, just because I recognize change is inevitable doesn’t mean I can’t freak out for a while beforehand. Which I am doing. Quietly.

And using an awful lot of wet wipes.

Don’t worry, though. I’ll be back to bare hands soon enough.