It's the thought that counts.

This is an old story, but, really, do poop stories ever get old?

Last winter, the stomach virus from hell wreaked havoc on our household five times.  Seriously.  FIVE times.  I had taken some time off from working, so I was with the kids day in, day out -- which meant that we spent a lot of time at germ-infested indoor playgrounds and that I caught every disease the kids brought home on their grimy little bodies.  But my biggest gripe about last winter was not how awful I felt, but rather how much time I spent cleaning up poop.  Because while I, an adult with adequate sphincter control, could - even in the most dire circumstances - make it to the bathroom, the kids just could not.  I'm not sure I am doing this justice.  When the virus struck, they could not make it to the bathroom at all.  Ever.  They crapped their pants every. single. time.

It gets worse.

So it was May, and we were rounding up our last bout of the virus.  The kids were upstairs napping, and I was snoozing on the couch.  I hear a door open, footsteps, and then, softly, "Mommy?  I think I need some help."  I head up the stairs, and there is Hayes -- pantless, with poop-streaked legs, holding a wad of toilet paper.  After surveying the scene, I deduced the following:

Awoken from his slumber with a stomach-ache, Hayes jumped out of bed and tried to make it to his bathroom (about 10 feet from his bed).  He didn't quite get there in time, but he managed to hop up onto the toilet while the diarrhea was still coming out, leaving a trail of poop across the bathroom floor and down the side of the toilet.  When he was done, he made a valiant effort to clean up the mess.  Using an entire roll of toilet paper, he wiped his legs and the floor, leaving the soiled paper in a heap on top of his (also soiled) pajama pants.  When he realized that his efforts were not going to be enough, he decided to come and get me.  So he walked from the bathroom through his room and into the hallway, leaving a distinct trail of poop-prints in his wake, and called out, "Mommy?  I think I need some help."

I never imagined that I would feel worse for the maker of the poop than for the cleaner of the poop.  I think that sums up what it means to be a mom.  Put THAT on a Hallmark card...