Toe Bites and Turd Stomps: A Toddler’s Guide to Making an Impression

We all have those family stories—the ones told with suspicious confidence about events we were too young to remember and too old to refute. These tales aren’t so much nostalgic as they are the kind of content Netflix would label “dark comedy—viewer discretion advised.

Take my nickname, for example. BUMMER. Yep. That was the label lovingly slapped on me by my dad when I was still wobbling around in a diaper. Nothing says “bundle of joy” like a word synonymous with disappointment and emotional flatulence. But hey, he said it with affection, so that makes it... better? Sure. Let’s go with that.

Then there’s the toe-chomping incident. Picture it: I’m teething, dad’s deep in a Sunday football trance, and I decide his big toe looks like a snack. I bite. He kicks. I fly. I land on a footstool like a rejected circus act. No one mentioned the string of expletives that likely followed, but I’m guessing it wasn’t a Hallmark moment.

Grandma Rhoads had her own trauma courtesy of me. One day, she caught a whiff of something foul, assumed I’d done the diaper deed, and began the cleanup. I, being the cherubic little gremlin I was, locked eyes with her, smiled sweetly, and stomped in my own poop. That’s right. I weaponized my bowel movement. And yet, she still loved me. That woman deserved sainthood and a stiff Southern Baptist drink.

And who could forget the Memphis trip? Five hours of family bonding with me being a crawling-walking toddler and snack crumbs, punctuated by my decision to unscrew a diner booth light knob and swallow it like a Tic Tac. Cue the panic, the ER visit, and the doctor’s casual “watch his stool” advice. Spoiler alert: it passed. But did we return the knob? Did we apologize to the diner? Did I gain a lifelong fear of swallowing hardware? No, no, and not even a little.

So maybe “BUMMER” was prophetic. Or maybe my parents just needed material for family reunion anecdotes. Either way, I survived. Bruised slightly feral, and full of stories.

And that’s the thing about Empathy on the Rocks—it’s not just about the polished reflections or the poetic endings. It’s about the messy, ridiculous, sometimes mortifying moments that shape us. The ones we laugh at, cry through, and eventually share with others who need to know they’re not the only ones stomping through life’s metaphorical poop. Cheers to surviving, storytelling, and finding grace in the absurd.