Friday, August 12, 2005
the poo
Or Another True Story of Brave Parenting Adventure
WARNING: As I trust you can discern from the title of this posting I am about to unravel a tale that is not for the squeamish or faint of stomach. If, my dear reader, you find that you are of a more delicate and sensitive nature and are by chance leisurely reading this with your morning coffee and a danish, you may want to first finish your meal before proceding. May I suggest you check out the headlines at Salon or find a few moments amusement at The Onion before returning to this humble story. Although on your next morning outing when you order breakfast and are given the option of something such as pancakes and sausage or a fruit cup, I trust you will remember this and order the latter.
First, a bit of schooling:
Peristalsis.
It's one of those wonderful things our bodies do without us thinking about it. And that's a very good if sometimes messy or potentially embarassing thing.
It frequently does not work well in non-ambulatory people and others who don't move around alot, particularly in the lower regions. That's why there's older folks in lots of those laxative ads. Something about walking and the movements of everyday life helps to keep things moving down there.
And when things aren’t moving down there. . . well, it pretty much boils down to simple math. If you’ve got more going in than you’ve got going out. . . we’ve all seen the ads, we know what happens.
Well, as The Boy is non-ambulatory this has always been an issue.
This has been compounded by The Boy’s history. Due to the still unaccountable Ms. Von Munchausen’s evil insistence that The Boy had stomach problems he does not have, he lived on a liquid diet fed nearly continuously through his gastrostomy tube for the first two and a half years of his life. The formulas that are used, while wonderful for providing complete balanced nutrition, frequently have the side effect of gumming you up quicker than pouring cake batter in your gas tank.
This has left The Boy, for lack of a better less medically descriptive explanation, shall we say, perhaps a little bit stretched out on the insides.
Needless to say by now, The Boy has issues when it comes to regularity.
He's really not. He's typically an every four or five days type of guy.
You read that right. Every four or five days.
If after four or five days it don't come out on its own, which is frequently the case, well. . . if it ain't coming out somebody needs to go get it.
I'll spare you the detailed description of that procedure and say only that it involves direct manual stimulation of some of the muscles involved. Use your imagination, or not. Fortunately, it's a borderline minor medical procedure and as The Wife is halfway to her RN license she typically spares me from the details as well.
Which is not to say I haven't done it.
You do wha'cha gotta do. Ask any parent, they'll tell ya. It's your kid, man.
On those times when The Boy independently initiates this blessed and much heralded in our home bodily function we go balls out to encourage it and facilitate the process.
Particularly if it's been like a week.
Can you imagine, or even do you want to, going a fucking week without, um. . . oh fuckin'ell, let's just speak plainly and let it all out, so to speak. . . shitting?
Not a pretty picture is it? Get's ya a little uncomfortable, don'it? Perhaps even now you're feeling a little bloated.
Such is the Life of The Boy.
I will now proceed with a descriptive account of earlier events.
As today marked about six days since his bowels last moved, The Wife and I had planned the intervention to get the proverbial ball rolling for this evening. As it turns out, our plan was not needed.
I was sitting on the couch with The Boy in my lap when I felt his beginning efforts to push and strain to um. . . yeah that.
"Honey! Quick! The Boy is trying to poop!" I holler out to The Wife sitting at this computer on the desk across the room. With well practiced precision we spring into action. We have learned with experience that The Boy's bowel movements are a little like a frightened turtle, if conditions aren't just right, he won't come out of his shell. And we have actually witnessed it going back in. We've learned through much trial and error that positioning is everything.
So we assume the position. I recline on the sofa and place The Boy on my chest in this kinda halfway like he's crawling halfway like he's Muslim and Mecca is in the direction of my head position. As I steady him with one hand, I am loosening his pants and diaper with the other.
The Wife approaches and as I lift The Boy slightly she places a large disposable pad between The Boy and myself. She then completely removes his pants, leaving his diaper unfastened but still covering his bits and parts.
The Wife then stands, holding on to the diaper, like a quarterback under center waiting for the snap.
We wait while speaking words of encouragement and praise.
As it had already been a week, we didn't wait long.
A push here, a grunt there and presto. . . we have poop! Major, massive, nicely formed like a small melon tapered at one end. Seriously and literally big shit.
The Wife carefully wraps it in the diaper and scrambles off to the bathroom dispose of this minor miracle in the toilet. Plop. . . flush. . . finished.
Or so we think. . . until about half hour later when I enter the bathroom to heed nature's call.
Turn on the light, raise the lid, drop trou, aim and. . . Whoa Nelly!
The massive poo is still there.
I flush the toilet as I turn it off and tuck it back in my boxers.
The poo does not move. I nervously watch the water level inch upwards towards the top of the bowl. I scream, "Aaaagh! No! Please don't overflow, please don't overflow!"
With millimeters to spare the water level slowly begins to subside. The monumental poo mocks me from the bottom of the toilet bowl.
The Wife hears the commotion and joins me in the bathroom. We stand side by side staring in awe and amazement down into the toilet. Gahdamn! The kid's only four! And he craps like an NFL linebacker a day or two after All You Can Eat Steak Night at The Golden Corral.
I must confess to having a brief moment of strangely twisted parental pride, "That's my Boy!"
In disbelief I flush again. Again the water inches slowly up towards the top of the bowl while the massive poo stoically sits, static at the bottom of the bowl.
Damn. Now what?
Well, if it won't go down in one piece. . . what to use? I go out into the carport and snoop around, finally settling on a small scrap of plywood, about an inch wide and two feet long.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Flush.
It leaves the bowl, but as is quickly evident by the rising water it does not pass through.
Double damn.
After about twenty minutes of cussing and plunger work the flushing of the toilet slowly returns to normal.
Longo.
|
WARNING: As I trust you can discern from the title of this posting I am about to unravel a tale that is not for the squeamish or faint of stomach. If, my dear reader, you find that you are of a more delicate and sensitive nature and are by chance leisurely reading this with your morning coffee and a danish, you may want to first finish your meal before proceding. May I suggest you check out the headlines at Salon or find a few moments amusement at The Onion before returning to this humble story. Although on your next morning outing when you order breakfast and are given the option of something such as pancakes and sausage or a fruit cup, I trust you will remember this and order the latter.
First, a bit of schooling:
Peristalsis.
It's one of those wonderful things our bodies do without us thinking about it. And that's a very good if sometimes messy or potentially embarassing thing.
It frequently does not work well in non-ambulatory people and others who don't move around alot, particularly in the lower regions. That's why there's older folks in lots of those laxative ads. Something about walking and the movements of everyday life helps to keep things moving down there.
And when things aren’t moving down there. . . well, it pretty much boils down to simple math. If you’ve got more going in than you’ve got going out. . . we’ve all seen the ads, we know what happens.
Well, as The Boy is non-ambulatory this has always been an issue.
This has been compounded by The Boy’s history. Due to the still unaccountable Ms. Von Munchausen’s evil insistence that The Boy had stomach problems he does not have, he lived on a liquid diet fed nearly continuously through his gastrostomy tube for the first two and a half years of his life. The formulas that are used, while wonderful for providing complete balanced nutrition, frequently have the side effect of gumming you up quicker than pouring cake batter in your gas tank.
This has left The Boy, for lack of a better less medically descriptive explanation, shall we say, perhaps a little bit stretched out on the insides.
Needless to say by now, The Boy has issues when it comes to regularity.
He's really not. He's typically an every four or five days type of guy.
You read that right. Every four or five days.
If after four or five days it don't come out on its own, which is frequently the case, well. . . if it ain't coming out somebody needs to go get it.
I'll spare you the detailed description of that procedure and say only that it involves direct manual stimulation of some of the muscles involved. Use your imagination, or not. Fortunately, it's a borderline minor medical procedure and as The Wife is halfway to her RN license she typically spares me from the details as well.
Which is not to say I haven't done it.
You do wha'cha gotta do. Ask any parent, they'll tell ya. It's your kid, man.
On those times when The Boy independently initiates this blessed and much heralded in our home bodily function we go balls out to encourage it and facilitate the process.
Particularly if it's been like a week.
Can you imagine, or even do you want to, going a fucking week without, um. . . oh fuckin'ell, let's just speak plainly and let it all out, so to speak. . . shitting?
Not a pretty picture is it? Get's ya a little uncomfortable, don'it? Perhaps even now you're feeling a little bloated.
Such is the Life of The Boy.
I will now proceed with a descriptive account of earlier events.
As today marked about six days since his bowels last moved, The Wife and I had planned the intervention to get the proverbial ball rolling for this evening. As it turns out, our plan was not needed.
I was sitting on the couch with The Boy in my lap when I felt his beginning efforts to push and strain to um. . . yeah that.
"Honey! Quick! The Boy is trying to poop!" I holler out to The Wife sitting at this computer on the desk across the room. With well practiced precision we spring into action. We have learned with experience that The Boy's bowel movements are a little like a frightened turtle, if conditions aren't just right, he won't come out of his shell. And we have actually witnessed it going back in. We've learned through much trial and error that positioning is everything.
So we assume the position. I recline on the sofa and place The Boy on my chest in this kinda halfway like he's crawling halfway like he's Muslim and Mecca is in the direction of my head position. As I steady him with one hand, I am loosening his pants and diaper with the other.
The Wife approaches and as I lift The Boy slightly she places a large disposable pad between The Boy and myself. She then completely removes his pants, leaving his diaper unfastened but still covering his bits and parts.
The Wife then stands, holding on to the diaper, like a quarterback under center waiting for the snap.
We wait while speaking words of encouragement and praise.
As it had already been a week, we didn't wait long.
A push here, a grunt there and presto. . . we have poop! Major, massive, nicely formed like a small melon tapered at one end. Seriously and literally big shit.
The Wife carefully wraps it in the diaper and scrambles off to the bathroom dispose of this minor miracle in the toilet. Plop. . . flush. . . finished.
Or so we think. . . until about half hour later when I enter the bathroom to heed nature's call.
Turn on the light, raise the lid, drop trou, aim and. . . Whoa Nelly!
The massive poo is still there.
I flush the toilet as I turn it off and tuck it back in my boxers.
The poo does not move. I nervously watch the water level inch upwards towards the top of the bowl. I scream, "Aaaagh! No! Please don't overflow, please don't overflow!"
With millimeters to spare the water level slowly begins to subside. The monumental poo mocks me from the bottom of the toilet bowl.
The Wife hears the commotion and joins me in the bathroom. We stand side by side staring in awe and amazement down into the toilet. Gahdamn! The kid's only four! And he craps like an NFL linebacker a day or two after All You Can Eat Steak Night at The Golden Corral.
I must confess to having a brief moment of strangely twisted parental pride, "That's my Boy!"
In disbelief I flush again. Again the water inches slowly up towards the top of the bowl while the massive poo stoically sits, static at the bottom of the bowl.
Damn. Now what?
Well, if it won't go down in one piece. . . what to use? I go out into the carport and snoop around, finally settling on a small scrap of plywood, about an inch wide and two feet long.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Flush.
It leaves the bowl, but as is quickly evident by the rising water it does not pass through.
Double damn.
After about twenty minutes of cussing and plunger work the flushing of the toilet slowly returns to normal.
Longo.
|
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