I went to a girls’ night out the other night, and I had to laugh inside, as I often do. Remember the time of your life when talking about poop was taboo? There’s something about the whole child-bearing process that slowly strips a woman of her inhibitions.

Maybe it’s the utter strangers who are allowed to see parts of your body that until now, only parents and a person who wed you were allowed to view on a regular basis (and not the parents anymore). Then you’ve got the Lamaze classes, when you sit around on the floor with complete strangers, talking quite explicitly about your body’s upcoming agony. Then it’s the hospital gown, and it’s all downhill from there: lactation consultants with no reserve, actually tallying wet and dirty diapers, and the amazingly forthright questions of nurses, which should no longer faze you after being weighed during nine months of pregnancy. Maybe you’ve wondered, like me, Isn’t it amazing that your job involves asking people such personal questions every day, and everyone acts like it’s no big deal that you’ve just asked?

Then you have the days when you get poop on your hand. Or there’s someone else’s half-digested milk staining your favorite shirt. Or someone wipes his or her nose on your other favorite shirt. Then you potty train someone (“Tell me you didn’t just do that there!”). Someone streaks down the stairs when the UPS guy is at the door. A voice calls, “Will you come wipe me?” when you have company. And at least once in the middle of the night, someone gets sick on you. And you get to clean it up.

Motherhood is a contact sport, and it certainly leaves us looking that way (maybe without the athletic physique)! If you can’t talk about poop after all that … I believe it’s safe to say you’re a very private person.