S**t Happens

Once upon a time my son (aka aspie boy) was a wee lad of three or four years old. At this tender age he was already a dedicated artist, decorating any surface he could reach with any sort of writing/coloring implement he could find.

One day he decided to experiment with more organic media. He began using his own poo to paint with.

He painted the walls. He painted the furniture. He smeared it into the carpet and rubbed it all over his toys. He even daubed it on himself, taking special delight (it seemed) in working it into his hair.

Now this is pretty normal, right? At least, that's what the pediatrician, other parents, etc and so on would assure me when I mentioned it.

But my son? He did this not once or twice but three or four times a day.

EVERY day.

For about SIX MONTHS.

I spent hours every day literally scrubbing the shit out of things. Ever tried to get half-dried poo out from between the prongs of a lego? I recommend avoiding it if at all possible.

This was before we even knew about his autism. And yet, somehow, I managed NOT to murder anybody. There have been other rough times, and I'm sure will be more to come, but that was certainly the {ahem} crappiest.

And that, dear readers, is why I will not do scat or "human toilet" play as anything but a cyber-fantasy.