Two Babies, One Toilet

Back when they were both still tiny and FULLY unhinged, going to the bathroom was a fucking strategic mission. You don’t just go. You plan. You position. You contain the littles.

I felt it hit- the dreaded gut twist. I had mere seconds.

I wasn’t about to leave two wild-ass babies loose in the house like ferrets with thumbs. So I did what any desperate auntie would do: I strapped these little demons into their infant carriers. Facing me. WATCHING me.

They looked confused. A little betrayed. I didn’t care. I shat with an audience.

The baby version of a prison riot was brewing as I wiped- feet flailing, pacifiers being yeeted, tiny screams of “peepees” (uppies) echoing off the tile. 

But I made it! I sat. I pooped. I survived. Auntie of the year? Maybe not. But alive? ABSOLUTELY

Let’s get one thing straight: I’ve always been a little bathroom-shy. Like, the kind of person who’d rather risk organ failure than be the one who made the bathroom smell like the end of days. I’m talking Olympic-level bladder control, holding it in like I’m smuggling a watermelon. That’s society’s little gift to us: shame so deep you’d think taking a shit was some kind of war crime.

But then — BOOM — enter Teetee, queen of the chaos, protector of the pacifiers, and occasional unwilling bathroom performer. And let me tell you something: kids don’t give a single microscopic damn about your delicate sense of dignity. They’ll waltz in on you mid-shit, ask you for a snack, and then proceed to offer helpful commentary like:

— “You smell like poop!”

— “Is that your butt noise?”

— “I did a poop like that once!”

And there I was, pants around my ankles, gut twisted like a pretzel, praying to the bowel gods to let me get through this alive. Meanwhile, the kids are living their best lives — yeeting pacifiers across the bathroom like little grenades, feet kicking like they’re front-row at the baby mosh pit. It was like the world’s worst rock concert — and I was the headliner.

And you know what? They didn’t care. Not one single fuck. I was the only one dying of embarrassment, while they were treating it like a front-row seat to the Auntie Shit Show. And in that exact moment, as I sat there mortified with two tiny humans cheering me on like I’d just hit a home run, I realized: kids get it.

They know that bodies are weird and leaky and make strange sounds — and they’re not ashamed of it. They’re fascinated. Hell, they’re proud sometimes. A fart is practically a superpower to them. Meanwhile, we grown-ups? We act like taking a dump is the most shameful secret since the moon landing.

And that’s the poison we pass down — this idea that normal human functions are dirty or bad or embarrassing. And it’s absolute bullshit. So while I sat there with the world's worst front-row seats to my own personal bathroom hellscape, I decided: these kids aren’t gonna learn that shame from me.

Nope. They’re gonna know that pooping is normal. Farting is funny. And even Teetee, the one who’d rather die than fart in public — is human too. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this chaotic, glorious, no-filter ride of being Auntie, it’s this: kids teach you more about being real than any adult ever will.

So yeah, I pooped in front of them. And I felt like I’d died a thousand deaths. But I survived. And maybe, just maybe, I let go of some of that shame society tried to glue to me.

If you take anything from this unholy bathroom saga, let it be this: kids strip away your dignity faster than a wet fart in a crowded elevator. But maybe that’s the beauty of it. They force you to get real with your humanity—no filters, no shame, no pretentious bullshit. And honestly? That’s a gift I didn’t know I needed. So here’s to them, and here’s to me—shitting my pants with an audience and still coming out the other side. Auntie Unfiltered and Unphased.