Sophie and I have been drawing with Sharpies on the back of an old mattress, propped against a cable reel. She asked for a pony first, but I’m not very good at ponies and afterwards we both stare at the lumpy, pig-like creature I have made.
“I’ll color it in,” she says helpfully, and scribbles all over it in blue. It turns out, though, that I am excellent at drawing poop. I draw it as a tower of diminishing circles, like a baby’s stacking toy. “Make it stinky!” she says, so I add some squiggly lines on the left and right. Sophie loved it, and decided that much, much more poop was required. Soon there’s a cat made out of poop, with little arrow ears and a face. There’s a birthday cake with a poop on top, and then a pile of poop with birthday candles standing in it.
“Draw it bigger!” she says. The biggest poop is probably four feet across, but Sophie greets each one with hand-clapping glee. I start to run out of space, and to frankly get a little bored, but Sophie is unrelenting in her poopular enthusiasm. She doesn’t seem to have any interest in having these drawings, or anything so much as their moment of creation. She loves the act of asking for and receiving them. As I draw the next squiggle lines on the 187th pile, I start to chant in a sing-song voice to myself, very quietly.
“Poop, poop, poop, poop.” She looks up and grins hugely, and sings along with a beat we could march to. The poop army.