I remember one patient in particular, who had not pooped for well over a week. We started our fun-filled journey with a garden-variety fleet enema. We mobilized, drank prune juice, took stool softeners, and ended the day with the always-sexy hot oil enema. Side note: Even if you have just met that morning, if you give a grown man two enemas in one day, you are now besties, and are required to invite each other to your kids' baptisms and whatnot. It's, like, the rule. Anyway, I was in the hallway charting, and he called me into his bathroom to behold the fruits of his labor. A chocolate morsel would be a good reference point. We just each threw an arm around the other's shoulder, and laughed until tears ran down our faces. Poop will put you in touch with your humanity, folks.
So anyway, Elena was born, and other than the garden variety up-the-back-down-the-legs fun that all parents enjoy, we had no problems. Then, I had twins. Although initially on board with the idea of new babies, Elena went on a nine day poop strike when they were born. There were tears of joy all around when she finally fired one off. But the struggle continued. She entered her avant garde poop art phase, wherein she would sneak the contents of her diaper into the babies' co-sleeper next to my bed, or else use it much like a crayon on various household surfaces. It was a joyful time for all of us. But, things settled down. Three babies in diapers is a lot, but we made it.
Now, Elena is six years old and Gabby and Jonah are almost four. One would think that these people are old enough to handle their own toileting, and yet, they are not. I am still master of ceremonies for all potty events, and I am SO ready to retire. Okay, Jonah is delayed in his potty training because of his SPD. No problem. BUT, he was doing so awesome, making it through whole days without accidents, etc. Over Christmas break, we decided to try big boy panties (briefs? whatever) and naturally, he got a stomach bug that day and decided that underwear is foul and disgusting (in this case, he was not wrong).
Gabby, much like her sister, has decided that she just doesn't want to poop anymore, and spends a great deal of her time (and my patience) in the pursuit of prevention. That girl has buns of steel, no joke. So, tonight as I was taking Jonah out of the tub and drying him off, I called to Gabby to check on her. No answer, so I ran to the tub, and she was standing there, you know, squeezing. Red-faced and panting, trying to prevent the inevitable. So, I called to Elena to ask her to help Jonah into his pull-up, while I put Gabby on the potty. Gabby was totally wet and sliding all over the seat, and still trying to keep her knees together, and I'm trying to push them apart, and she's wide-eyed and fearful because a) she doesn't want to poop and b) she doesn't want to fall in and die in a toileting accident like Elvis. Finally, I get her legs open, and it's like I'm working the labor/delivery unit. "Push-push-push! You can do it! Almost there! Puuuuuuuush!" Meanwhile, rather than helping Jonah to step into his pull-up, Elena has opened the tabs on the diaper and is trying to get this four-year-old to lay down like a baby, so she can diaper him, which he finds hilarious and infuriating, equally. Finally, Gabby and I succeed in our efforts, and I throw her back in the tub, and get Jonah into his diaper. Now, naturally, the product of our labors will not flush. And why would it? The physical properties of this specimen (mass, density, dimensions) simply forbid it. I'm frustrated, and trying to get the thing to flush (repeatedly) while muttering obscenities under my breath. Sensing a moment of drama, Gabby puts her head in her hands and laments, "What have I done? What. Have. I. Done?"
Indeed.
This is my life, y'all. I wouldn't trade it, but I wouldn't say no to a vacation, either.
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