WHY POO?

The world always seems to tilt under my feet when I take my grandson Max out for the day. The last time it tilted was on a trip to our local library. Max was on the far side of the room and easy to spot. He was rambling about showing off his alligator shoes that lit up each time his feet hit the ground. They blinked so much I wondered how long the battery would last. Max also wore his best, favourite T shirt festooned with the monstrous open mouth of a great white shark with bloody teeth. He loved that gory shirt so much that he wore it to bed.

The library was calm but for the rattle of newspapers and the low hum of quiet conversation. But then, in a voice that made the windows shake,  everyone in the library was treated to Max, at top volume shouting, "Judy, Poo is coming!" Then frantically bellowing, "Judy, poo is coming fast!"

Leaping up to avert a disaster, Thomas(Max's favourite librarian), scrambled for his keys and hustled the two of us to the closest bathroom, the staff bathroom.. During the ensuing event while tottering on the toilet seat, Max looked contemplative and asked me ever so earnestly, "Judy, why poo?"

I bit my cheeks and tried not to laugh and dealt with the basics of digestion appropriate for a four year old little boy. We went "over the lips, past the gums, look out stomach, here it comes," and then I launched into the exciting and specific dynamics of bowel action. His reaction? "Oh." Question asked. Question answered. Check the zipper and we're off.

However, Max's question lingered in my mind. It's one that has bugged me for decades. Indeed, why poo? What good is poo? Why do some get more life poo to deal with than others?

Even if you live in a deep cave, you can't avoid the tough and trying experiences that are an inevitable part of life. When adversity hits, some of us linger and stall. Our tragedies may kill us yet some of us thrive beyond surviving them and live life with a ferocity and newness that may not have emerged before.

Me? Ask me next week about my own poo quandaries and the answer might not be the same as the one I come up with right now. For today, poo is just the result of a good meal and an honest experience with a curious, trusting, dear little boy. Thank heavens Max didn't ask me about sex or, God forbid, Santa Clause.

Smear me up.

I get nostalgic flipping through my mom's best recipes. I've stashed them among my own favourites and mixed them in with those saved from my children's preschool days. Play dough sits between mashed potatoes and angel cake. For some reason I filed coq au vin and Christmas turkey alongside paint extender.

Paint extender - hmm. Finger painting days are well behind me until the perfect grandson reaches the mucky stage. But body art is not.

I already have two tattoos. Hardly unique today, but 22 years ago sporting a tattoo was more radical. Mine are quite boring. You have to be a very good friend to locate them. Just two dots. One on my  breastbone and another under my arm. Boring - but useful radiation guides.

But make me giddy! Recently, I received an invitation to participate in a non-boring, body art afternoon.

Do you remember Dr. Hook's 60's raunchy lyrics, " Smear my body up with butter, take me to the Freakers' Ball?" That song partied well with beer kegs and togas 45 years ago.


But there I was "freakingly" approaching 70 and thinking of butter, as along with other women, I sipped a glass of  white, and smeared deliciously gooey red, yellow and blue paint all over my naked self.  Breasts, belly, legs, arms and face. That was fun enough but then I carefully crawled over a huge piece of white paper and splatted my random body parts down. A wiggle or two and thanks to the core exercises I suffer through at the gym, I performed a less than graceful plank and retreated without messing my surprisingly gorgeous image. What a blast! Smear, crawl, splat, plank up, retreat. Smear, crawl, splat, plank, up, retreat. I did it three times with three different colour combos.

A good time was had by all but, why do it?

Photographs of the gloriously colourful images have been taken. They will be digitized, sized and transferred to canvas. Then my body art, along with the other women's will be auctioned off by Vancouver's Diane's Lingerie, supporting CBCF. Supporters yes, but this time Diane's encouraged our "girls" to run free and unfettered.

Don't hope to discover which image is mine, unless you look very carefully and know what a certain scar looks like.

What I wouldn't do for CBCF. Cheerfully!

Skiing. by guest blogger Chelsea Caldwell.

Actual spousal conversation….

Me: “…..so if you can get home for 6, I will have the baby in bed and we can be up on the ski hill by 7:00.”

Perfect husband: “OK, I can do that, I think my ski socks are still in my boots. Are you in the office tomorrow?”

Me: “No, I have to get a mammogram.”

PH: “Why?”

Me: “So we can go skiing.”

PH: “Oh.”

PH: “ ….Wait, what?”

Me: “Mom won’t babysit unless I get a mammogram.”

PH: (silently wonders what the hell he married into).

You need some context for the above conversation. First, we are not good skiers. My husband says he finds skiing very tiring from “all the trying not to die”. I prefer to ski easy runs looking stylish, and save challenging runs for family nights, when I have to go slowly (for all the tiny knee high wonders that are learning). I am very understanding of their limitations. In short, we need all the practice we can get if we are ever going to be able to teach our kid how to ski. Or follow him down the hill after the little beggar learns on his own.

Second, my mother is Judy Caldwell. The odds of me missing a mammogram are about the same as me making the Russian gymnastics team. That being said, with work, and the baby, and the general business of life, it did take me four months to book a mammogram. Hence the babysitting blackmail.

I booked my mammogram through the self-referral program on Tuesday. I had my mammogram on Thursday. The same week. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being flattened and squeezed. I contemplated having pancakes for breakfast in honour of the experience. We made it to the BC Women’s Hospital by noon. 10 minutes later I was done. It was kind of anti-climactic.

Having a mammogram is easier than:

Having a baby;

Giving blood;

Doing your taxes;

Finding a bathroom when you really need one;

Getting a baby into a car seat for the first, second, and third time;

Wondering whether you should have a mammogram;

Wondering whether you have breast cancer.

Second spousal conversation:

Me: “…..and I think that we should try to ski in the Interior this spring.”

PH: “What do you have to do for us to go away for a weekend? Tattoo the CBCF logo on one of your boobs?”

Me: “Would you have a problem with that?”

PH: “Nope.”

Chelsea Caldwell is a partner at Eichler Caldwell, Barristers & Solicitors, as well as a new mom, wife and proud daughter. Chelsea has been a lawyer for 10 years, litigating cases at all levels of court in British Columbia. She advocates for her clients vigorously and thanks her mom, Judy Caldwell, for teaching her how to convince and (gently) browbeat defendants with a smile. She has figured out how to feed a baby and type at the same time and has a sticky laptop as a result.