Hairy Farmpit Girls

I was 24 the first time I shat my pants as an adult.

I was living in downtown Denver with my then girlfriend and a blizzard had hit the day before causing everyone to take cover and wait out the storm.

We were fortunate, so, while we lived at 8th and Mariposa, where 2 gangs with very different ideologies would meet and “discuss” their differences on a near nightly basis, we did have a liquor store and bodega about 3 houses from our front door. So, while 3 feet of snow had fallen, we still had full, unfettered access to our favorite liquid vices.

We bundled up and stepped outside to tempt fate. Running hand in hand in an effort survive and escape in the 8 degree freeze, we giggled towards Tito’s. It was then that I belly laughed too hard, coughed, and trusted a fart that should have never been trusted.

I learned what a shart was because I had laughed too hard in the cold.

With my big, dumb eyes, I screamed “Oh No!” and directed my girlfriend to finish the quest we had embarked on without me. We both laughed hysterically because comedy is born from tragedy and crying would make things weird. She would get vodka while I walked home in 3 feet of snow with the worst pants situation a human can have. My priorities as healthy as my gut.

Being a parent is love, it’s joy, it’s one of, if not the, best thing in my life and I love almost every second of it. But, being a parent is also pain.

Being a parent is what caused you to read “The first time I shat my pants as an adult” rather than “The one time I shat my pants as an adult”. Being a parent is disease and for every cough or upset tummy my son has, I return in triplicate.

Sh****ng your pants at 24 is unpleasant, but sh****ng your pants at 44 is downright horrific and because of the love for my son and the fact we are attached at the hip and he breathes directly into my mouth, I get everything he gets and then some. It was with parenthood that my wife and I discovered she has a super immune system and I have none.

It’s always me. Always.

For every time my son vomits, I vomit 10. For every soft stool and stomach cramp that ills his hour, I spend 3 days dumping soup into the toilet. For every common cold he brings home, I am left resting in bed for a week with the bubonic plague.

It was last week, from either norovirus or the questionably warm YumYum sauce served on a deep fried lump of cheese and rolled in Doritos at the Elbert County Fair that the annual and great Vomiting of 2026 commenced.

My son was asleep in the back of the car when my ear was suddenly splashed with projectile vomit. I pulled over, cleaned him up and sent a text to my wife to have a bath and electrolytes prepared for when we got home. It was going to be a mess tonight but I knew what was to come.

His explosive stint lasted about 12 hours and, briefly, I felt that I was safe and had escaped the ills this time. It was a day later, as I casually fed the pigs, that I even more casually stood and vomited 3 times with no warning and without feeling the slightest bit ill before.

It was then that I knew I was about to go down and go down hard, yet, for my own amusement, as this had happened before, I ran inside and weighed myself as the vomiting began. I filled thermoses, checked the saltine status, slipped on my most comfy of polar fleece pants and let the illness begin.

And began it did.

Soon, violent vomiting took over. I was no longer able to make it to the bathroom on a consistent basis and was left with buckets and pots in reach of the bed. My wife, beside me for support, knowing there was nothing she could do other than raise our son as a single mother and keep the DNR I kept requesting out of my reach.

Comfort counts when suffering from questionably warm, fairground Yum Yum sauce and the pants I had slipped into were the best. They weren’t ones I had picked out. I don’t know how I obtained them but they were a regular part of my sleeping wardrobe. White with red and pink hearts, my son loved them. When I would wear them, he would rub his hands on the soft fleece and tell me how pretty I looked in them. He had gone out on a limb to tell me the beauty of my pants on so many occasions that I would wear them any time they were clean, just to give him the thrill.

My son looks up to me. Even on my most raggedy of days, he pays compliments and respect as it’s just who he is as a person. In my dainty, feminine way of presenting myself as someone other than a person who writes about sh****ng their pants on the internet, I have told him girls don’t fart. This led him to believing girls do not have a bu****le and; therefore, girls cannot p**p and that the only difference between boys and girls is the whole p**ping vs not p**ping thing.

He will tell anyone and everyone about how his mom doesn’t have a bu****le and I have never corrected him.

But violent vomit doesn’t care about red and pink hearts or the white lies to your children about a sphincter you may or may not possess. Violent vomit says f**k your feelings and f**k your bu****le. As I exercised futile resistance in spewing from my mouth, my bu****le betrayed me. I had reached for a bucket to vomit in and, while vomiting, sort of just rolled out of bed, taking the comforter with me to the floor.

I began to vomit so much, that I could not hold the bucket and right there, beside my marital bed, I laid on my back, looking towards the ceiling while just vomiting into the comforter.

It was at this point my wife rushed over to help. Leaning over, she was as helpless in helping me as I was in stopping the flow of vomit. As she looked into my big, sick eyes, I met her gaze and it was at this point, my bu****le decided it was no longer letting my mouth control the exodus. I laid on my floor, making direct eye contact with my wife and shat my beautiful pants.

Not shart. Shat. It was more than mistrust. My pants were shat to completion.

My wife assisted me into the bath and my pants were bagged as toxic waste that I would deal with later.

The next morning, as I located an urgent care that treats dehydration with IV fluids for less than the $1000 it would cost me to walk into the ER for the same treatment, I remembered my weight from the night before. Stepping onto the scale, I was pleased and horrified to learn I had lost 4.2 lbs in 12 hours.

IV fluids, Zofran and phenergren made it so I could return to the realm of the living again and when I did so, I was forced to look at the hell that was the night before. I was forced to confront what was in the tightly tied WalMart bag in my bathroom floor.

Life is a series of important decisions and sacrifices. A shart, while unpleasant on it’s own, is, ultimately, just a sq**rt that deposits a swatch of brown onto the sharter’s clothing. A shart can be thrown into a washing machine and, after the detergents do their business, a shart, once sharted, is done.

But a fully completed shat?

We need a new washing machine. Our machine washes but it takes forever and, sometimes, I run a particularly dirty load through a second time just to be sure everything gets clean.

If I were to throw my shatted pants into the wash, I felt I needed to do a pre-rinse and pre-soak first and had planned on bleaching the machine when I was done, because lord knows what sort of biological warfare that warm Yum Yum sauce was harboring. In this economy, no one can afford the toilet paper our family would need if the third and final member were to fall to this.

I was at an impasse. I could open the bag and be forced to confront and manage an entire serving of my own f***s or, remembering I had not paid for the pants nor did I know where or when they showed up in my life, I could just throw them away and be done.

I think a sane person reading this would wonder why I was even having this philosophical meltdown over a WalMart bag of her own f***s, but, please do some soul searching and put yourself in my shoes.

I held and contemplated what to do with a bag of my own f***s probably because I love my offspring more than you love your offspring. I held and contemplated a sack of my own f***s because I am a good, if not great, mother.

My son had already gone through so much with all of his own vomiting and sq**rting, I didn’t want to add emotional damage to the list of what he was enduring. He’s a sensitive and sentimental child and gets attached to objects and ideas and, knowing my child, I knew he would cry if he knew about my pants.

He would cry not just because the pants were destroyed, but he would cry over maternal betrayal. He believes in Santa, he writes notes to the Tooth Fairy and when Easter comes around, he marvels at the chewed up carrots that have been spat all over the floor in an effort to create whimsy. If he were to learn, in one fell swoop, that the beautiful heart pants were destroyed AND his mother has a bu****le AND she p**ps AND the entire reason his favorite heart pants were destroyed is a direct correlation to his freshly minted bu****led mother’s inability to potty in a toilet the same way she so passionately coached and taught him just a few short years prior; well, let’s just say, I don’t have the savings account needed to pay for all the therapy he will need as he processes that.

I threw the pants away and my wife and I have agreed to just never mention them or mention the fact they are missing.

We have healed now and I’ve worn black leggings all week. My son is back in school, my 4 lbs have returned, and I finally feel healthy again. But, parenting is pain.

My son came home yesterday, proudly clutching what appeared to be a large, red, Christmas bulb ornament. He was proud of it and told me his friend Zoe had given it to him on the bus.

We played in the yard, the red bulb promoted to “Master Blast Force Field Generator” and used for freeze tag and imagination play. It was as I was getting unfrozen that I saw my son twist the metal bottom of the light bulb and lick the inside.

My son doesn’t generally lick lightbulbs, so this new behavior shocked me and I questioned what he was doing. It was then that I realized that the bulb was not an actual ornament, but instead, it was the container that originally held a festive lollipop and, while the lollipop had been almost completely licked from the base, there was still a little pink candy sticking to it.

He continued to lick it, even letting out an audible “Yum, cherry!” as he did so.

He then informed me that the lollipop had originally been Zoe’s, and after she was done with it, she let him have it. He said that there was a little extra lollipop that she had left on the base so he and all his friends on the bus had taken turns licking Zoe’s residual candy.

I think I’m gonna need new pants.

Image description: Little Farmpit was super stoked about the lollipop and asked that I take his photo with it. All photos are of a child who, in case there was ever any doubt, 100% sprung from my sarcastic loins and took a ridiculous photoshoot with a bulb of spit.

Also attached, a text message to my friend Brittney about the pants. In it, I overshare and she tells me I can just, like, not mention things. So, instead of listening and keeping the fact I shat my pants from 1 person, I screen shot that convo and tell 100k people, in full, explicit detail, about that time I shat my pants. And then the other time.

The great thing about 6 year olds is that you only have to feed them 5 times a month.

Image description: note written in orange, 1st grader handwriting. It reads:

For mama.
Take me to school.
Feed animals.
Give me food five days in each month.

We do not know when this list of demands was placed on the fridge, but by God, you can bet I'm gonna feed the little fella 5 times this month. I mean, Thanksgiving counts as like 3. Parenting is easy peasy.

Last night was amazing and I am sure everyone is currently tuning into our page to find out Little Farmpit’s reaction to getting all his Christmas wishes met 2 months early.

Y’all…he’s so freaking stoked.

Last night, Little Farmpit was getting ready for bed as I logged into a Zoom call watch party that I was hosting. I had a friend on one end, helping me pick a streaming platform for election results, and, behind me, Little Farmpit was walking the 32 laps he must walk past my office door every evening as part of his toothbrushing routine.

As I yelled the futile direction to just focus on the molars in a stationary location, the friend on the other end of my zoom call let me know Jon Ossoff had just been re-elected as Georgia’s Senator.

I don’t know many 6 year olds who get super excited about US Senate races, but I know one. For those that missed one of my recent posts, Little Farmpit has been watching and absorbing everything he sees on commercials as truth and, taking all of the information and sales pitches that well paid advertising execs have come up with, he has crafted the perfect Christmas list for Santa.

Febreze and Jon Ossoff for US Senate.

For a month, we have asked him what he wants for Christmas and for a month, he has made the same 2 requests.

Due to a rabid skunk attack that played very well in his favor, half of Little Farmpit’s Christmas wishes came through and, this past Thursday, he was the fortunate recipient of the entire Febreze product line, including and not limited to Watermelon Sq**rt Febreze Auto.

Last night as he did everything he could to avoid brushing his teeth, I had the honor of making holiday magic.

“Jon Ossoff just won,” I told my son, causing him to pull the toothbrush that wasn’t in his mouth from his mouth’s proximity.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” he jumped and pumped his fist, “We can’t afford 6 more years of Mike Collins.”

I had no idea that my 1st grader had been absorbing civics lessons from the ads, but apparently he also knows the term length of a US senate seat and he has a potential working concept of who Mike Collins actually is.

I stayed up until nearly midnight watching one election result after another come in and the evening was absolutely glorious. When the alarm went off this morning, rather than heading straight to LFP’s room to wake him for school, I hit snooze and opened my phone to see what happened while I slept. Little Farmpit, who I always have to rouse for 5 minutes in the morning, bounded into my room. He was already awake.

Jumping between me and my wife, he saw my phone and the blue Ds that appeared up and down the screen. At the top, he saw Jon Ossoff and the joy of his Christmas miracle happened all over again.

“Look at all his wins!” Little Farmpit remarked.

“Those aren’t just Jon Ossoff,” I explained, “those are people like Jon Ossoff that won.”

“And what is that red one? Why isn’t that Jon Ossoff’s friend?”

Without coffee, I explained that it was a person like Jon Ossoff’s opponent and that that person had won their seat instead of a blue one like Jon Ossoff.

“Well, it’s only one red,” he replied with a shrug, he didn’t seem too upset over it, “Everything else is Jon Ossoff.”

Merry Christmas Little Farmpit, Merry Christmas Jon Ossoff, and Merry Christmas to you all.

*Political commentary not at all endorsed by Febreze Fabric, Febreze Air, Febreze Plugs or Watermelon Sq**rt Febreze Auto, but, if Jon Ossoff were to read it, he would probably approve this message.

Image description: Little Farmpit and his content kitten, Dolly Purrton, both comfortably sitting on a couch in a district where somewhere Mike Collins cries into the lump of coal he received last night.

I don't have the anatomy for it, but I think I'm hard.

Happy Day After!