There must be an unwritten rule somewhere that every mom the world over, can openly talk about their kid's poop. If it's gross and disgusting to you, two words: tough sh*t.

I remember sitting in a pre-natal class with my husband a few weeks before our first son was born and the Doula going on and on about what to anticipate when it came to diaper changes. Little did I know then just how often poo would become the hot topic of conversation.

So who gives a sh*t? Apparently moms! I don't ever remember a time that I so freely and willingly discussed bowel movements with just about anyone. Are they going? How often? They haven't gone in a week, is that ok? Colour. Consistency. Frequency. Smell. Pump the legs, bicycle them, it helps with gas. Backed up? A little prune juice will clear them out quickly, or try a tummy massage. Sniffing bums in public - no biggie. Swiping a finger along the edge of a diaper or down the back to take a peek, a regular thing. 

The conversations (and concerns) are constant. Poo is no longer taboo. I mean, there's a reason you can easily find very-graphic-infographics and descriptive poop articles only a quick google search away. And not only do you find yourself suddenly talking so liberally about it, you must keep track. (You're full of crap if you say you don't inspect each bum change looking for anything out of the ordinary...or in fascination with the remnants of last night's dinner.) Every time I hit up my pediatrician's office it's like THE question they ask, "how's his eliminations?" Funny you should ask Doc, pull up a stool, I've got a shit-ton of stuff to say on the subject.

So why do we love to shoot the sh*t about sh*t? Well, for one thing, it's what unites us all. Every mom does diaper duty, a thousand times over. Every mom knows the difference between a string of machine gun toots and of a fart that can’t be trusted. So every mom has at least one harrowing tale she willingly shares about an epic blowout at the most inconvenient time or less than ideal location. I remember the first time I got pooped on; my son was on the change pad that affixed to the playpen and it shot out of him like a cannon. Daddy jumped out of the line of fire, whereas I used my hands and body as armour to block him from spraying all over the couch. It felt like a badge of honour, as if now I was officially a mom.

Naturally, the truly outfit-destroying kind typically occur just as you're making your way out the door, "Sorry we're late, (s)he pooped as we were leaving," is a completely valid and relatable explanation.

But hands down, the absolute worst sh*t-hit-the-fan moments come when your child is strapped down - be it the stroller, car seat, or highchair - and their steamy lava flows up the back, down the sides, and into their every nook and cranny, it's like a literal shit-storm and you just know you're going to be blowing through a whole pack of wipes. Surprise Mom! You didn't know that this diaper change meant an immediate, unanticipated bath with baby in one hand and a shower wand in the other. Hot Tip - if you're still in the onesie phase, thanks to the amazing envelope design around the neckline, those bad boys can be pulled down the body instead of over the head - you're welcome!

At the hospital you're warned not to be alarmed by the tar-like meconium, next it's the watery, seedy, orangey-yellow kind and then when the solids start, you roll the dice with what you'll find at each diaper change. Once they get a bit older they seek solace in a quiet spot or corner - why does every kid go hide? I mean when your face goes beat red it's kind of obvious what's going on behind the couch, love. Spoiler alert: you've sh*t yourself.

We actually obsess so much over sh*t that we come to reminisce about it. I'm telling you this sh*t is bananas! Like B-A-N-A-N-A-S bananas. Don't believe me? Ask any mom who’s past potty training to change your baby and it's all loving tones, "Awww did someone make a poopie? Awww! they still have the mustard-coloured poop," like your child's diaper is some endearing art project.

I'm sure once the diaper years are behind me, there will be less snapchats to friends featuring blowouts and dinnertimes interrupted by dumps, overall a lot less sh*t-talking - then again, I have two boys, so maybe not.

In the meantime, while I'm knee deep in sh*t, I can always publicly blame any off-putting odour of my own on my offspring, and if they have anything to say about it, I’ll have two choice words for them too.