My nickname is Poo.
I was two years old when my sister Annie affectionately stroked my chubby red cheeks and called me Pooh. She was an unruly teenager and I was the youngest blob in the Green family household. The sibling just above me in age, Natalie, was so slight that placing my lardy baby body her would crush her enough to keep her in one place. I was the heaviest of all my mother's 10 children, she still shows me the popped out vein behind her knee cap that has my name on it. I was cuddly and passed from sibling to sibling and in all the confusion somewhere down the line, my nickname was no longer associated with Winnie-the-Pooh Bear but rather the fecal matter floating lifelessly in the toilet waiting for its final curtain call, flush.
There have been various additions to Poo over the years. Poodles, Poo-poodilly-ank-a-mer, Doggy Poodle on a Stick and P-double-O. The most enduring of all the names has been Poodles. In fact, some only call me by that name, and, loudly for that matter, especially at the mall and in public places.
But that's the thing. Before the irony of my nickname reached its climax, I had to reconcile myself to the private, cute little nickname's emergence into public spheres. Am I okay that my sister is screaming "Poo" across the parking lot because she decided to stop and tie her shoes? Would I feel secure answering triumphantly to the name "Poo" being called to me from the ticket counter? Once that was squared away, I actually had something to poo about.
After many tests of figuring out why I couldn't sleep and felt sick and sweaty for no reason, along with a myriad of other reasons, Ulcerative Colitis was born. Thus, this Poo met her poo and we've been figuring out our relationship ever since.
