The Day I Pooped My Closet


Dear the Internets,

This is a true story.

This is my true story.

I lay down my dignity for you, because I love you very much.



Once upon a time, I pooped my closet. 

I was pregnant.

With twins.

Approximately 100 years pregnant with twins, judging by my size, but really only 7 months or so, which made me roughly larger than a semi-truck and smaller than the Empire State building. Big, in other words, especially since I started the pregnancy “fluffy” according to a nurse who was kind and wonderful and didn’t call me chubby to my face for which I will always love her something fierce.

Fluffy to begin, I was, and then I got, well, fluffier. Growing two babies does a number on the body, and mine popped out in all sorts of delightful places not limited to my belly. No; I’m pretty sure my hind end, my thighs and my breasts were growing sympathetically in proportion to my middle, good girlfriends that they were, not wanting my belly to feel alone in all the fluff. 

Now I didn’t spend much time feeling badly about my weight because I’d lost 3 babies to miscarriage years ago, and now my body was making two of them, so HOT DAMN, Fluffy Body; you ROCK, you know?

Still, every time my mama walked into my house, she’d catch sight of my largess and her eyes would pop and her face would pale and she’d say, “Honey, you’re as big as a barn” and “You know you’re going to have those babies early, right? Because YOU CANNOT GET ANY BIGGER, Child; THERE’S NO WHERE ELSE FOR THOSE BABIES TO GO except OUT OF YOU” which I think was her prayer or an exorcism of sorts: IN JESUS’ PRECIOUS NAME, I COMMAND YOU TO GET OUT, Babies! 

So I was big, is what I’m saying. Or Enormous if one wants the technical, scientific description. And that meant it was hard to move, particularly if I was sitting or laying down or anything other than already in motion per Newton’s First Law of Motion which I’m sure he discovered whilst watching someone pregnant.

And I was tired all the time because a) growing two babies is hard work, man, and b) lugging the three of us around was tantamount to getting a cruise liner in and out of port; slow, tedious, a real nail-biter in close quarters.

On the day of the incident, I laid myself down in bed and took a nap. A nap! Which, in case you don’t have kids, I’ll tell you is a miracle both in scope and in frequency because naps are precious and rare, friends. If I ever get to nominate anything for sainthood — anything to sit at the right hand of God the Father in Glorious Heaven — it will be naps. People will be like, What about Mother Teresa who selflessly cared for the destitute and dying? And I will be all, MOVE OVER, TERESA because NAPS. 

So I was taking a nap in my nightie sans panties because I could no longer figure out how to lasso those things around my ankles much less wrestle them all the way up my legs, but I was awakened by an urge to go potty. I ignored it, of course, because NAP and exhaustion and the impractical nature of moving the ship out of port, and I fell back asleep, only to be awakened again and again.

Le sigh.

The age old decision of Go Potty vs. Stay in Bed compounded by Pregnancy. It’s a doozy, I tell you, but I finally decided to wrestle myself from the bed and make the trek through our master closet to the en suite bathroom and relieve myself.

Only, on the way, I farted.

Except it wasn’t just an air poopy like I thought.

It was a poopy poopy.

Followed by another poopy poopy.

Followed by another poopy poopy.

Poopies in rapid succession making good their escape and rushing to freedom. 

And, as I was sans panties, each soft poopy slid to the closet floor with little puh-looping sounds and sat there like brownie batter, soaking into the carpet. 

I, of course, was no longer in the proper physical condition to get my carcass down on the floor to clean it up, but I was also full of abject humiliation and paralyzed at the thought of a) telling my husband I’d just pooped our closet, and b) asking him to clean it. 

So I did what anyone in my situation would do: I stood in a sea of poopies and cried.

And cried.

And cried.

Which is where Greg found me. In my nightie. Standing in a field of daisies minus the daisies and plus my feces. Sobbing.

He tried to bundle me off to bed so he could scrub the carpet, but I wasn’t then and am not now a woman who appreciates being bundled, so, through my hiccuppy sobs, I asked the man to lower me to the closet floor, bring me a scrub brush and carpet cleaner and let me clean up my own mess in privacy. Complete privacy please, I begged, “You go AWAY, Greg. Go FAR, FAR AWAY and try to FORGET THIS EVER HAPPENED. I know we vowed for better or worse, in sickness and health, but THAT WAS A CROCK, MAN. I meant for better or worse FINANCIALLY, and in sickness and health WITH NURSES TO CLEAN OUR BOTTOMS. I did not agree to THIS. To Poop Fest 2006. So I need you to go AWAY and breathe peppermint and imagine me back when I wasn’t a closet pooper. PLEASE, man; I BEG YOU. GO AWAY.” 

And so he did. He brought me supplies. He lowered me to the floor. He went away. 

But I should’ve agreed to the bundling, because I spent the next half hour sitting crisscross in the closet trying to reach past my babies to scrub the carpet, and you guys… you guys… every time I shifted, I touched poop. To the left, my knee hit poop. To the right, my thigh nudged poop. Like St. Patrick’s prayer, except instead of Christ behind me, before me, beneath me, above me, to my left and to my right, where I sit and where I lie, it was POOP. I mean, Jesus was there, too, but mostly POOP.

Due to belly size, I didn’t have the leverage to clean. So instead of cleaning, I smeared. And when I freaked out that I was smearing — I am smearing poop in my closet. OH MY WORD. I AM SMEARING POOP IN MY CLOSET. — I smeared some more. OCD poop cleaning, except without any actual ability to clean. Obsessive compulsive poop smearing. I’m pretty sure that’s a diagnosable psychiatric condition. 

Well, eventually, I quit. Wisdom is the better part of valor, after all, and although I admittedly like to exhaust valor before I let wisdom through the door, I could admit I’d tried and was defeated and needed Greg to finish.

I went to get him. 

I mean, I tried to go get him, but that’s when I discovered my legs were asleep after being trapped under the belly all that time. 

I pulled on the dead weight of my legs to get them out from under me, sticking them straight out from my belly — and into the wasteland — to revive them, but no feeling came back. Minutes and minutes of leaving my legs in poop and just no feeling at all because they were still beneath my belly, even sticking out, and the belly was still good at cutting off blood. 

So I laid down.

In the closet.

In smeared poop. 

And Greg came back a half hour later to find me there, with poop on my hands and poop on my legs, lying in the poop I’d smushed into the carpet. 

In conclusion, I once pooped the closet.

And also, being married to me is THE BEST. 

So listen, friend. You might be having a down day. You might be going through a rough patch. You might wonder if you’re the only one sitting in a giant, figurative pile of poo. But I am here to tell you, if you are not sitting in a giant, literal pile of poo, you’re doing better than you know. Better than you know, friends, and better than me that day. 

Sending love to you,


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ABOUT BETH WOOLSEY I'm a writer. And a mess. And mouthy, brave, and strong. I believe we all belong to each other. I believe in the long way 'round. And I believe, always, in grace in the grime and wonder in the wild of a life lived off course from what was, once, a perfectly good plan.
  1. Thank you for making me laugh today. The story and the comments are priceless. I won’t take the time to mention my bathroom “moments”, but I can empathize with you.

  2. I laughed so hard reading this, I peed my pants.

  3. This blog & all of the comments made me laugh a lot. Thank you for sharing your stories! I realize that we all have crosses to carry & I’m not alone. I have Crohn’s disease, which is incurable. I had to have emergency surgery to remove my large intestine, because I was bleeding to death. I have to wear an external bag and have what’s known as an ileostomy. One hasn’t lived until one’s pouch clip that keeps one’s bag closed comes undone in an airport at the reservation desk. The warm, lovely feeling of liquid running down my pants legs into my socks & shoes is just so wonderful (N-O-T)! What’s even greater is watching my suitcase with my change of clothes disappear & looking at the faces of all of the people around me as I create a giant, muddy puddle on the floor! I wanted to disappear like my suitcase at that moment! I did manage to get my suitcase & a change of clothes, but I did have to slosh through the airport to the women’s bathroom. I have christened my bed, carpet, floor, & clothing as well & have cried A LOT!!! THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME LAUGH!!!

  4. I totally understand I have the “It wasn’t a fart” incident of 2004.

    I was 8 months pg with my first. We were in a new apartment where the bathroom was located on a different floor of the house than the bedroom.

    I had been having some problems earlier in the month being able to decipher if I needed to fart or poop. So I always went to the bathroom, every time. But for the last week when I thought it was just gas, I was right. So when I wake up at 3 am with the feeling that I need to let loose some gas I was all “Do I *really* want to walk all the way up those stairs, just to fart, then come back down the stairs to go back to bed? No of course not. It’s just a fart.”

    And it wasn’t. And then I laid there in my feces, wondering if I should wake my husband and admit my shame. Or just lay on it for the next 2 hours till he got up for work.

    I admit I laid there for a good 15 minutes debating on this, before I gave in and woke him so I could get the sheets off the bed.

  5. I laughed so hard , I so can relate, I have in the car story….humbling, .I love your ending, you are the best!

  6. Wow, that is some hilarious sh*t for sure.

  7. I have never read you blog but in the last 5 minutes I have fallen in love with you.
    YEP, those sweet poop words made me realise you are mostly likely my favourite human being ever.
    Thanks for making me laugh so much!
    On those days that I feel like I am drowning in poop, I will remember – I could LITERALLY be swimming round in my own poop!

  8. I can totally relate, I was just shy of my 9th month and carrying a very large belly around… Due to my size I was told by several friends, coworkers and total strangers that I must be having twins but it had been confirmed by ultrasound there was only 1 in there, and he was trying to set newborn records (he weight 10.2 at birth). Anyway, I had gotten down on my mom’s kitchen floor to get something out of the bottom cabinet when my younger sister decided to crack a joke. Long story short, I started laughing.. Which caused me to start peeing, of course I couldn’t get up by myself to get to the bathroom 50 feet away so I emptied my bladder right there on the kitchen floor. Totally embarrassed myself and yet it only made mom and sister laugh harder. Eventually my son got even with them both, during diaper changes he peed on my sister’s chest and later peed in mom’s face.

  9. Oh man!! This actually made me feel a little bit better about the Big Pee Incident of 2010. I was six months pregnant and my house happened to be located at the very top of a hill (around 6 blocks up), and the bus stop left me down at the bottom. As soon as I got off the bus and started walking up, I was hit by a terrible, unstoppable urge to pee, but the whole way to my house was completely residential and deserted (i.e. no restaurant/bar/store/anything where I could go relieve myself) so I tried to hurry up, but being six months pregnant and having been extremely unfit my whole life, running up a hill wasn’t really all that successful. Anyway, to conclude the story, when I was about half way up, the pee started pouring out of me and I just couldn’t walk any faster. I was extremely lucky in that the whole way was deserted, it was night time and when I got home my husband was still at work so I could run into the shower, complete with all my peed-on clothes, and clean myself. I’m so glad there are people out there with more embarrassing stories hehe!!

  10. Reading this brings me back when I was gigantically pregnant and peed the bed because I just couldn’t move quick enough. You are my soul mate. 🙂

  11. I read this with the utmost sympathy and of course having been there the same humiliation. I was also carrying twins and enormous does not even begin to cover the size element. I was at the doctors office and trying to get off the table to go to the bathroom and of course just like you I did not make it. Right there in the middle of the room and I was mortified and when the nurse came back in the room she found my enormous self in the floor rolling around trying to clean up my mess with a Kleenex tissue. I have never said this out loud but your courage led me there hahaha and yep it was almost unbearable and yes I was crying in the floor. The nurse was an angel from Heaven helping me up and telling me that it was ok. Do ya think kids have any idea especially the boys what mom has gone thru to bring the little rascals into this world….probably not and they sure don’t want to hear stories like these. Hey I think we should tell em hahahaha. My twin BOYS would kill me especially if I told the story at a party. They loooove to make fun of me and pull pranks so they pretty much deserve to hear about their “beginning” publicly.

  12. Hilarious and well… so glad that hasn’t happened to me. Yet. 🙂

  13. Beth, I laughed and cried. Thank You for sharing this. Bless You!

  14. My night- “3 Reasons I Stopped Loving the Sinner and… Pooped My Closet”

    Yep; That was an unexpected turn. Thanks, Beth. I enjoyed reading.

    A Sinner/Pooper
    (sometimes both at once)

  15. […] Lying in your own smeared poop while pregnant is hysterical. Well, not at the time. But now, yo. The Day I Pooped My Closet by Beth Woolsey A while back I shared a piece my husband had forwarded to me about how hot our […]

  16. […] no interest in this topic, and that’s OK. No sweat. I’ll be talking again soon about pooping my closet or being too sweary or teaching my children to vandalize things and generally upsetting polite […]

  17. I trained for two years for a big race in a big city. The morning of the race as soon as I woke up at my parents’ house I went to push brew on their coffee maker and it would. Not. Brew. Well this is a problem because we have our personal routines before a race. And this was to be my biggest race to date! See , with my routine, The coffee must work its way through the body before I have to leave the house to drive to the city! My blood type is coffee. No coffee? No run! So, I got everything else ready, then hit McDonald’s drive thru for the Java. Drove half an hour to the city. Felt the urge for the morning constitutional. got off fwy at almost the right exit. Found parking structure but could not find parking. Finally found a spot way in the back of the lot. Having serious Must. Poop. Now cramps. Grabbed my race gear from the car and walked around car towards exit, leaned on pillar which supports parking structure and farted. A lot. While squatting. Except that… You know it wasn’t actually gas. It was poop, but I didn’t know it yet! I just felt relief! I went upstairs to the faaaancy hotel who owns this parking structure, and I just walked in like I owned the place and headed straight for their hotel guest restrooms off the Lobby, and I locked the door to the enormous stall. it was everywhere. Massive explosion poop. I imagine the hotel staff were already sniffing out the odiferous intrusion. And I had no change of clothes. And many runners, including myself, run commando under our running tights. So I had pooped my tights. And I had been training for this race for two years. Two YEARS. I was not going to miss this event!!! So, I quickly used paper towels as best I could. And washed my hands and legs, And I ran that race, smelling like poop all the way to the end, where my family met me at the finish line! With hugs! I held my head high and thought, “next race, I’m bringing my own coffee maker!”

  18. You are the cutest and the funniest in all of Poop Land! To this day, I haven’t told a single soul about my prego poo accident in the kitchen. Shush. Until now, I had NO idea there was a secret society for this kind of activity. Bless you Beth, for bringing it out of the darkness of the closet, and into the light and dignity of Blog World!

  19. I did too, in car. I was 7 months pregnant w second.

  20. Dang – that’s some good writing. Honest to God LOL to the point of tears (which I never do). Thanks.

    1. I agree… I laughed out loud to the point of tears rolling down my face. I am a new fan of this poopy woman!

  21. It’s the sisterhood of the pooping pants 🙂 I too have had a “few” experiences after having my child. Thank goodness I figured out what contributed to the sudden urge to go and the inability to “Hold it”. For me it was the pink sugar substitute… If I drank a glass of tea or coffee with it, I would have about 20 seconds of notice and then the race was on to the restroom. I have a few incidents however the two that stand out are: My child and I were going to an early movie and on the way to pick up her Auntie. Suddenly “that” feeling plus and the red light I was sitting at was enough enough time to have my child hand me a plastic bag from the back seat. All the while she’s asking me…. Why Mommy Why Mommy? In my head, I’m screaming Just give me the bag!!!!! I have cloth seats. I’m sweating, squeezing my cheeks, praying, and trying to stay calm. Nope.. It happened.. So I turned the car around and headed home. Of course my child was old enough to understand we were going the wrong way, and the smell was awful! So it’s not bad enough to have this happen, add a chatty 5 year old that doesn’t stop talking. I called my sister to let her know we would not be picking her up and what happened. After she stopped laughing, she offered to meet us at the house so I could “clean up” without the 5 year asking a million questions. I refused to exit the car until she arrived, I had no idea what to expect, lol. She took my daughter out of the car, she laughed, I was mortified, and went into the backyard (privacy fence) stripped down hosed off, threw my clothes away and showered. Needless to say, I don’t use the pink sweetner anymore.

  22. Beth, I have two boys. One is in kindie, the other is in 2nd. They’re active and crazy and beautiful, and I love them to pieces, but I only grew up with a sister, and I’m a super anxious person, so I cry a lot raising my boys because it’s hard for me. Parenting is hard, so is being a SAHM. Thank you for helping me laugh today. I’d follow that with “you have no idea,” but actually, I think you do. Thank you.

  23. I pooped my pants in my car on a ferry crossing getting home…and wasn’t even pregnant! My 3 year old and infant had both conked out while waiting to load the ferry, and were sound asleep. I started the 35 minute crossing happily enjoying the peace and quiet, looking over the loveliness of the ocean, life was good. And then, well, suddenly I had the urge to go. I mean GO. I panicked. Just the thought of waking the kids up and carrying sleepy cranks up to the ferry bathroom was awful, but it was really my only option. Even if I would have felt comfortable asking another driver to watch over them, there was nobody around except a business man in a luxury SUV next to us sound asleep, clearly not an option. So, I shook my oldest…no response except a groan and turning of the head. I begged, tickled, gently shook, offered candy and treats, all to no avail. (The child who never sleeps deeply was for once practically comatose.) Knowing there was no way I could carry two sleeping children, I decided to try to sit back down, focus on controlling the urge. I tried deep breathing, meditation, listening to the radio, but things only continued to worsen, because, well, when you gotta go, you gotta go. At this point, I decided to put the baby in the carrier and just find some way to drag/carry a sleeping preschooler up two flights of stairs. And just as I was strapping on the carrier, “Ding!” The alarm indicating arrival in five minutes and instructions for all drivers to return to their vehicles sounded. There I was, trapped. No time to make it, but too long to hold it and hit up a gas station after disembarking. I called my husband, hysterical, and he told me just to “s*it my pants.” Realizing I probably had no other choice, I took off the carrier, laid a plastic TJ Maxx bag on the seat, and did my best to discretely put one of my baby’s diapers in my pants. Yeah, it happened and I can honestly say consciously allowing yourself to poop your pants may be one of the strangest feelings I’ve ever had as an adult. After simultaneously laughing and crying, I called my husband and said, “Well, I did it.” Dead silence, then I could hear laughter being suppressed. I told him to go ahead and laugh, but he could never share this with anyone AND he was not allowed to look at me until I had showered and changed. He kept his end of the bargain, I’m pleased to say. I can fully laugh about it now, and in fact, have decided it’s a badge of honor, a testament to just how much I love my children that I would poop my pants rather than leave them alone. Maybe I’ll tell them someday…or maybe not. Children have big mouths.

  24. I had a similar experience on my way into the shared restroom at my office job while I was carrying twins. So humiliating. I’m so happy to know I’m not alone!

  25. Yep. Except when I did it, I was 5 months pregnant with what would eventually be the 10 lb wonderbaby, and it was my friend’s kitchen floor. I’m an awesome houseguest.

    1. Lol at you world salad! Thanks for sharing 🙂

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