I remember the days when my life revolved around weighty, cosmic questions. The success or failure of an entire day could be assessed by one critical measure…Did he poop in the potty? Judgment was handed down in the pre-school pick-up line. Either you were sent away in humiliation or sweet glory.
A substitute teacher was manning carline when I pulled up and asked for the verdict. She pursed her lips and sneered, “We don’t poop; we have BMs. And no, he didn’t.”
I rounded on the Montessori hag with the full fury of 32 years behind me, the seatbelt straining against my raw, pulsing indignation, “IN OUR HOUSE WE POOP, AND EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER HAD THE INITIALS ‘BM’ POOPS. THAT’S HOW WE ROLL, BIATCH!”
I do admit, I stepped into it myself (no pun intended). I started out as BM and then married right back into it. I recognized it for the plague it was and spent much of 5th grade trying to woo Travis Thompson, so I could secure BLT. I guess the closest I ever came to escaping BM would have been to BS. Little improvement there.
Divorce seems like a hassle, so here’s my PSA. Do not abbreviate waste elimination with BM. It’s unnecessary. Our language is replete with scatological vocabulary for every occasion. You could discuss with your doctor, your mother, your dog, and your 4 year old all in the same day and never use the same words twice. Make a game out of it, even. Impress your friends with the clever phrases you can turn. And then be sure to post it on Facebook.