We all know that it happens. We become mothers, and we start talking about poop. We try to curb the urge in polite company, but sometimes we just need to discuss it.
Consider yourself warned.
I’m sure that you’re expecting me to talk about the baby. That is, after all, where most poop conversations are focused. But you would be wrong. This is a post about W~ and the fact that the kid’s output is just.not.natural.
I’m flummoxed. I mean, he’s three for goodness sakes! But his daily constitutions could give most adult men a run for their money (I have family members who can back me up on this–I’m not exaggerating). I honestly don’t understand how he is managing not to be traumatized. But, you know what else?
I’m sick of plunging.
Honestly, I haven’t spent this much time with a plunger since my days as the only woman in a single-bathroom office with men. That situation got to the point that, one day, I walked into the bathroom, walked back out, closed my office door, and sent an email to the rest of the office that essentially said, “I need to use the restroom and I’m sick of plunging toilets I didn’t clog. Someone else needs to go deal with it.”
But that’s not my point. And I can’t email my kid and tell him to plunge his own poop, anyhow. Heck, I can’t even trust him to wipe himself.
I’m seriously beyond knowing what to do for the kid. I’ve tried putting fiber in his drinks, but I don’t think that’s really the issue. I mean, it’s not like there are days between plungings. This is a daily occurrence (heck, I got to plunge twice on Tuesday). And he is probably eating more fruits and vegetables than my non-clogging children, anyhow.
OK, I’ll stop whining. I should probably go plunge the toilet now.