Meditation for pooey bottoms
The poo is inconvenient and badly timed.
As I bend and coax and crouch and wipe and reach and stretch, I consider what my boy has eaten to make him poo so prolifically and enthusiastically. I notice we are well fed and digest easily. My body has recovered from recent birth well enough to let me polish a reluctant toddler. The squealing bundle strapped to my front as I pin down his older brother is a joyous gift, even while making the task physically harder.
In contrast, the fragrant saffron poo of my newborn speaks of freshness and life and a body that is growing entirely from me.
Both my boys need this service from me now, but one day their bottoms will be private (and probably hairy).