My son’s 17th birthday was unexpectedly and delightfully full of crap.
It had been a tough stretch for me and my oldest, with the full weight of senior year and all the looming decisions bearing down. Just that morning we had argued about application deadlines and clashed over the Common App. Still stinging and refusing to hear me out, he made no eye contact as we took our seats for dinner with a group of his closest friends.
Fortunately, that’s when the you-know-what hit the fan. One of his pals, an older swim teammate, clapped my son on the back, congratulating him on having reached a major milestone: he was now of age to enter the lucrative world of stool donors. This friend (let’s call him The Excrementor) explained that nature’s call had been forwarded to science, with top laboratories paying thousands of dollars per month for regular donors. In fact, his application was pending at four different research facilities, undergoing a more rigorous screening than admission to an Ivy League university. But who needed a fancy degree when just doing your business could BE your business?
Calculations were made and a plan was born: they’d saturate the market and in no time, be flush with cash. After all, these were high level athletes, disease-free, clean eaters. There could be no finer poop in all the land. Enthusiasm soared and laughter turned to genuine excitement as the boys pictured their lives through tan-colored glasses. Millionaires by 30. Retired by 45. Oh, the empires they would rule from their porcelain thrones!
Not wanting to poo-poo the idea, I silently searched online amid the potty talk. Turns out the cheeky friend was correct: antibiotic resistant superbugs and other serious infections have opened the field of Fecal Microbiota Transplantation, requiring regular “deposits” of the highest caliber, with qualified donors handsomely compensated. While this crew was certainly not lacking in the requsite material, what about college? Grad school? Olympic dreams? With their futures circling the drain I had to say something before we were all in deep doo-doo.
What I missed during my rage Googling was the real poop scoop: the boys had already talked it out, uncovering logistical hurdles and challenges on their own. They had sagely agreed to stay on their respective paths while perhaps pursuing part-time poop-ortunities. What sweet relief.
We locked eyes and he grinned. I put my arm around his broad shoulders and in the gentle glow of 17 candles, together we sat in the bittersweet in-between: still needing each other but in changing ways. Holding on, but preparing for release.
I know I won’t always be his first call, but I’ll settle for a solid number two. | 
